CAST AWAY
by Listelia
Summary: When their plane crashes (again!) at the top of a snow-capped mountain, Tintin, Snowy, Captain Haddock, Calculus, the Thom(p)sons and even poor Nestor, with no hope of rescue, have no choice but to leave the crash site and try to go down on their own... But with Tintin injured, will they manage? And how will the reporter cope with the fact that he's the one who needs help for once?
1. One

**_ Note : _****_This is happening following the events in Rodier's _Tintin & the Alph-art_. It also includes _Tintin & the Lake of Sharks_ in the cannon._**

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

* * *

"Blistering Barnacles! Not _again_!" was the first thought that crossed Captain Haddock's mind when he regained consciousness, while his still clouded memory painfully tried to recall the events which had led him to find himself flattened against a porthole in the corner of an airplane cabin after yet another forced landing.

It had started off so well, and for a few hours, he really had believed that for once, they would be entitled to a real vacation - and they needed it, after Ishia's debacle, as the captain insisted on calling their last adventure. Yes, they had successfully dismantled an art trafficking network, but at what cost! The terrible death of Rastapopoulos and their almost-double-hanging kept pursing them in their nightmares – and, even if Tintin pretended otherwise, the young man had been so shaken by his near-death experience in Ramo Nash's tank that he had developed an aversion to everything sticking, including mud, in which Snowy liked to drag himself. It was a dreadful thing to watch the lad, usually so much in control of himself, losing his composure whenever his shoes got stuck in sludge while recovering his dirty dog from a gully.

When they had come back home, Nestor had been thoroughly upset by their general state of exhaustion and so had been Calculus – he wasn't always that oblivious, you see. The old dear had then taken upon himself to phone his friend and ask if he could borrow again the pretty villa by the artificial Lake of Flechizaff.

Haddock had to admit that he had had mixed feelings when he had learned of the professor's project: sure there was the unforgettable memory of an hilarious golf game with the Thom(p)sons and he had to admit that apart from their cheese from Hell and their damned mineral water, the Syldavians really knew how to party… but he feared that coming back there would only remind Tintin of the enemy who had stood against him for the last time during the Alph-art affair.

But the young reporter's face had lit up and a spark of life had brightened his eyes for the first time in weeks, as he was listening to the professor describing the arrangements he had made.

\- "We'll get see Niko and Nouchka again! How long has it been since we were there last time? Two, three years, already? They must have grown up a lot… And good old Gustav will be there too, isn't it, Snowy?"

The dog, who was under his master's chair, enjoying a cup of coffee drizzled with brandy and a butter croissant, had barked enthusiastically. He probably hadn't heard the rest of the sentence.

\- "We won't be able to go for a swim in the lake, given the season, but I'd be glad to go for some hiking in the Zymylpathian Mountains! I heard they're magnificent… and we hardly saw anything of it whenever we were in Syldavia."

Well, of course, they had been running away from goons most of the time.

Haddock had groaned. Everything was settled, then, even if he would have preferred Tintin to stick to playing chess, reading in the swing or strolling with the kids, rather than climbing piles of rocks… How was he not yet disgusted with mountains after Tibet and Peru, that was something of which the old sailor couldn't made heads or tails... _Bah_, at least hiking was a lot better than that crazy moto biking the young man lost himself into whenever he needed to think or to let off steam (he had not yet broken his neck with this dreadful machine, but it would surely happen soon enough).

So said, so done. The captain had only insisted for Nestor to come with them - he did not want to repeat the experience of a Madame Vleck - and Tintin had called the Thom(p)sons to ask them if they were free: without the two police officers, the gang would not have been complete.

Sometimes, Haddock wondered what they were exactly: a clutter of friends or some sort of unusual family? One thing was certain: over the years, he had learned not to worry about gossip. What mattered, what he wanted to protect, what he refused to give up even when his old demons came back to whisper to him that he was not worthy of so much happiness… was this home to which one could come back after long wanderings, the feeling of being part of something bigger that came with knowing Tintin and sharing adventures with him, his gruff affection for the young reporter, the infuriating friendship he entertained with Cuthbert, his complicity with that faithful brigand of Nestor and even the strange paternal feeling growing on him whenever he thought of these two mannered and clumsy old bachelors who by an unknown miracle had managed to become police.

They had faced danger _together_ (Thousand thundering typhoons, that had even led them to the moon!) so yes, they would go _together_ spend what was left of winter at Sprok Villa, whatever the rest of the world would think of it.

Their luggage packed, they had taken a taxi to the station, the train to Brussels, then a plane to Klow and finally, after a short stopover - just enough time for an excellent sauerkraut sprinkled with, well, quite a tasty white wine indeed - they had found themselves in front of the infamous small private airplane which Haddock had not remembered soon enough (otherwise he would have taken action) and at which he had glared, blocking everyone at the bottom of the ramp.

\- "I hope this flying nightmare will get us there safely, this time", he had groused.

\- "Woof!" Snowy had chimed in, feeling just as suspicious.

Thomson had whined even before his colleague, distracted by Nestor who was inquiring why his master's mood had suddenly darkened, could say a thing.

\- "Come on, gentlemen, one would almost believe you were superstitious!"

Tintin had laughed at them, while Calculus was muttering something about his pendulum.

\- "Welcome aboard, gentlemen", the pilot had said in a deep grating voice, pulling on his large mustaches like the one who had done them the dirty blow of abandoning them in the sky aboard a sabotaged aircraft the previous time. They had barely managed to land and would have fallen off a cliff if it hadn't been for Niko and Nouchka's help.

Tintin had stopped the captain before the man would launched into an outraged rant intended to warn the fellow that there was no way they would renew such a stunt.

\- "Leave the poor man alone, he's no spy, come on."

Haddock could have sworn that a spark had lit for a moment in the pilot's dark eyes, but he did not want to ruin their holiday upon a stupid reflection of the sun, so he had allowed himself to be led to his seat and had buckled his belt, grouching, soon joined by Snowy, who was just as grumpy as him and had dropped at his feet with his tail between his hind legs. The dog had been scolded by his master: he had flatly refused to board the airplane and Tintin had been running after him for five minutes before capturing him at last.

The Thom(p)sons, not very reassured, had chosen to sit again at the back of the cabin, fiddling nervously with their bowler hats. Calculus was telling Nestor about their vacation from the previous time: it was quite a peculiar version of it. The scientist kept chuckling every five minutes as he remembered "the good trick" played on Rastapopoulos, the messed up program of the machine reproducing objects in 3D. The poor dear had probably never realized how tight the game had been under the lake…

Haddock, scowling, had given up correcting the story. There was no need to put Nestor into a state of panic retrospectively or to make the professor feel guilty. It was all behind them. And Tintin was right, they shouldn't see evil everywhere. The pilot was probably an exemplary man and this vacation was going to be very good.

Well… the pilot had indeed been bought by one of their enemies and he left the plane exactly like the previous one, abandoning them without a parachute in a plane diving in the middle of a storm of dark clouds crackling with electricity.

Then it all went very quickly. Tintin rushed to the cockpit, shouting at them to brace for impact while the indistinct shape of a mountain grew bigger and bigger in front of them; the captain grabbed Snowy who was hollering, sliding on the sloping floor; the Thom(p)sons hugged each other; a terrified Nestor clasped his hands in prayer and Calculus widened his eyes in surprise as he looked up from his book when a flying suitcase cast off his green hat - then, in a maelstrom of snow, broken glass, sparks and torn metal, the plane crashed.

And then everything went dark.

* * *

_**TBC**_

* * *

_****_Note_****_

**_So, I've done a lot of thinking since some of my very favorite stories in this fandom are ones where you can 'hear' bits of French when the characters are speaking (mostly fanfics set in a more 'tangible' timeline, like during or post WWII, which is something I totally adore)._**

**_I debated whether I would do so too or try to pretend I knew the comics in English as well as I do in French (but I would have given away myself at some point, I think, and that would have been very embarrassing)._**

**_Then I finally decided I would leave the names as you know them, not even changing Marlinspike to Moulinsart, but that I'd go with the compromise of setting my characters in their born Belgium-French-speaking-world (and that includes Haddock in here, although I'm a HUGE fan of fanfics where Tintin is the only French-speaking bloke around and sometimes rambles in French, driving the captain crazy) and just sneak here and there French bits that anyone would be able to understand, to still keep the overall happy-bubbly charming feeling I get when I'm reading an English written fanfic where the characters sometimes say "_****mon Dieu, oui, monsieur !_"_**

**_And I figured I would be able to pull it off quite fine, since there're a lot more chances I'd do grammar mistakes in English then badly use a French word or expression (I _****am_ French, after all. What I'm not, though, is Belgian. So I already apologize profusely to any Belgian reader to any strange things I might write about their country, eating habits, etc.), but you tell me._**

**_So, here comes the revised version._**

**_One last thing_****_: I couldn't find a satisfying way of translating "_****moussaillon_", which is Haddock's favorite way of addressing Tintin. Even though it's been translated as to, it isn't quite 'landbubber', which is closer to "_marin d'eau douce_", an actual insult of the captain, but 'cabin boy' was awfully ugly and not quite right too. So I went with 'lad' and I sometimes switched with 'son', when our dear captain was feeling a bit emotional (he does that in French too, calling Tintin "_fiston_" when he's trying to be soft or considerate). And whenever it would work, I did use "landlubber" to be faithful to the albums you English readers might have read when you were children (I couldn't betray these memories you have, I've got the same and there're far too precious). _**

**_Bonne lecture !_**

_****_Listelia_****_


	2. Two

**CHAPTER 2**

* * *

"Blistering Barnacles. Not _again_!" Haddock thought, trying to straighten up. He unleashed a string of well-placed curses when his dislocated shoulder flared up with white-hot pain. Breathless, slumped against the freezing metal, he tried to calm his heart that was beating too fast and took a few moments to examine the situation. His first observations did not please him at all.

It was dark.

It was cold.

There was no noise.

The others were either still unconscious or dead. The plane was broken into two pieces. Bare wires were bristling in the pale moonlight and the stars could be seen, blinking far away on the black canopy, through a massive crack in the roof – or was it the floor?

The storm had stopped, but the cold scent of snow was strong enough to mingle with the - too familiar, much too familiar ... – smell of a large, dying metal bird, lying on the ground after a forced landing.

At least nothing was going to catch fire.

Something moved in the rubble and Haddock felt his heart leap with hope. A faint barking sounded in the awful silence of the mountain and Snowy emerged from beneath a mound of disemboweled suitcases, wearing what must have been the nightcap of one of the Thom(p)sons. He got rid of it with an annoyed sneeze and rushed towards the captain, whining plaintively.

\- "It's all right, old chap, it's over… I'm fine. Look for Tintin, Snowy, my boy, look for the others!" Haddock ordered in a hoarse voice.

He didn't have the strength to get up and anxiety was twisting his guts: _what if he _was_ the only survivor? No, it couldn't be ... they always got out of everything unscathed (or almost so) ... their luck was not going to abandon them now... Unless... except if... maybe the time had finally come to say farewell…_

Snowy barked, pricking up his ears with intelligence. He licked the old sailor's face, wiping away the salty tears glistening on the weather-beaten cheeks, then set out to find the rest of the crew. His little white curly tail soon started to beat happily and the next moment, Nestor straightened up, looking completely lost, the bowler hat of one of the Thom(p)sons crooked on his head.

\- "Forgive me, Monsieur, I did not hear..."

Something that was half a laugh, half a sigh of relief choked in Haddock's throat. His butler was tottering a little, but he seemed all right, except for a small scratch that was bleeding on his balding forehead.

\- "A little more to the West..." Calculus muttered then and they noticed that he was still strapped in his seat, the only one that had not been torn off by the crash... and hung from the ceiling, upside down.

\- "Cuthbert! Le Ciel soit loué!"

\- "What hap-p-p-p-pened? T-t-the end of t-t-t-the world?"

\- "To b-b-be p-p-precised… are we d-d-dead?"

The Thom(p)sons, staggering and shivering, their black suits powdered with snow, climbed back inside through the crack in the cabin, holding on each other, their mustaches still bristling with fear, their twin neckties as rumpled as the rare slicky hair on their round heads.

\- "No, we're alive! Thousand thundering typhoons! We _are_ alive! Thanks to that incredible kid who once again managed to land us in one piece!" Haddock cried, exulting despite the pain that pulsed like a hot iron mark on his shoulder. "What a man, all the same!"

_And he will show up in a minute. He's alive. Probably not even hurt! Well… maybe knocked out by the crash, but this ginger quiff of his will soon pop in the room and he'll tell us that we can still use the radio to ask for help…_

His eyes were boring burning holes in the direction of the cockpit. The night was engulfing this part of the plane, as if the nose of the aircraft was buried in a thick pile of snow.

They had just gotten Cuthbert down when Snowy barked again, making them jump.

\- "The dog must have found his master!" cried the captain, trying to straighten up but not succeeding. Frustrated, gasping, he picked up the first thing that came to his hand and threw it at the flustered others (it was a celluloid duck, probably belonging to Calculus who liked having such things swimming in his bath). "Go see what it's about, you fat lot of sea gherkins! Tintin may need some help to get out of the rubble!"

But by the time the Thom(p)sons got out of the blanket they were twisted in and Nestor got up stuttering excuses (Calculus, of course, had heard nothing: on the other hand, he had found the duck and was examining it with some suspicion), Tintin lifted the hung curtain which hid the cockpit and slipped on their side.

\- "Are you all right, my friends?" he asked anxiously.

\- "What took you so long?" gasped the captain.

But he probably wasn't heard, because the Thom(p)sons, Calculus and Nestor had all started to speak at the same time - the policemen mumbling things without tail or head, Nestor swearing to God that he was not made for adventure and Cuthbert admonishing the reporter because he was "asking about such trivial things" while they were in a critical situation: "you had me used to better choices, my young friend".

Haddock sighed in frustration and gathered his strength again to try to get up. But a soft hand touched his arm.

\- It's your shoulder, isn't it, Captain? asked Tintin softly. "Don't move, we have to set it back first."

The old sea dog shook his head vigorously, feeling his eyes tingle again.

\- "Nothing broken, lad?"

He could not see a thing in this dratted darkness. He wanted to grab the boy by his shoulders, check himself that he _was_ in one piece.

\- "Stop fussing," said the young reporter sternly. "Leave it to me. We're going to set your shoulder back and then you will feel much better. And that'll be very good, since this crew clearly needs a captain on deck..."

Haddock would have laughed if he hadn't wanted to cry so much. Relief and concern were throttling him, mingling with the swirling thought that whatever Tintin could say, if _he_ hadn't been there then everything would have gone down the drain, captain or no captain on deck.

The young man called Nestor and somehow managed to reset the butler back to his natural state of studied nonchalance. He guided him precisely and a few moments later, the injured man let out a howl that made the plane shake, the Thom(p)sons jump and sent Snowy back under his stack of suitcases.

\- "I think someone knocked at the door", said Calculus absently.

\- "Feeling better?" grinned Tintin.

Haddock cautiously moved his arm and groaned something at Nestor that sounded more like threats than touched thanks. The butler, however, was not listening to him. Looking a little confused, his eyebrows raised, he was trying to make out the features of the young reporter in the dark, as if he were surprised that Tintin had not set the captain's shoulder back himself: he was far more used to treating this kind of injury than Nestor…

\- "Well, my friends, we should try to get some rest. We'll think better after some shut eye. Plus, we'll have some light when morning comes", Tintin announced in his clear, determined voice." That part of the plane could be quite comfortable if we were to clear it up a bit. Thompson, Thomson, may I ask you...?"

\- "Certainly, Tintin!" cried the two policemen in chorus.

\- "Thank you, gentlemen. Nestor, there should be blankets in the compartments, as well as flashlights. Could you try to find them?"

\- "Oui, monsieur. I'll be on it right away, monsieur. Oh! May I take the liberty of suggesting that we all drink a cup of hot cocoa? I have - well, I had, before the accident ... - ah, there it is! I have a thermos here that I had taken with me just in case we'd be cold on the last part of the journey..."

\- "Nestor, you're an ace!" cheered Tintin, smiling. "It's a great idea, it'll warm us up."

He took a step, patted Calculus on the shoulder to stop him from rambling to no one, had him sit down and made sure that the good scientist was with the group in both body and mind. Then only, he let himself sink next to the captain and leaned against the cabin wall, closing his eyes for a moment, his lips pursed in a tight line. The moon slipped through the crack of the plane and lit up his drawn features, his forehead beaded with sweat.

Haddock frowned.

\- "You okay, lad?"

Tintin did not answer immediately. His hand sought in the shadows the hand of the old sailor and squeezed it for a moment, almost convulsively.

\- "This time, I really thought we were goners," he whispered. "I couldn't straighten up the plane and... for a while, I thought I was going to kill us all..."

\- "But you didn't. You saved us all, son", Haddock replied firmly, squeezing back fiercely that ordinarily steel hand that was trembling like that of a child in his. "Cuthbert, those two duffers, Nestor and I... you saved us all."

The familiarity only came to him when he was overcome with emotion. The rest of the time, it always seemed much more natural to mark how much he recognized in this wonder boy the man he was so proud to be friends with.

Tintin opened his eyes and rolled his head to the side to look at the captain.

\- "Thank you for being alive", he muttered with a weak smile.

\- "Come on," harrumphed the captain. "Stop being all emotional, son. It doesn't suit you. You're exhausted. Take your own advice, get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll be fit as a fiddle while we old goats will be complaining about our poor bones and you will hack this radio like a chef. I bet we'll be at Sprok Villa for supper and then it'll be the devil if I get back on a plane before a month."

\- "I heard that Signora Castafiore was going on a tour in Syldavia once again. She had greatly enjoyed dancing with you by the lake…"

\- "Don't talk about misfortune, boy."

Calculus was sipping his hot cocoa, watching them with something akin to tenderness behind his thick round glasses. Nestor was keeping busy, comforted by the thought of being useful. The Thom(p)sons had stopped shivering and were quibbling about the best way to arrange the improvised dormitory. Snowy was noisily chewing the bath duck.

The night no longer seemed so cold nor the broken plane as sinister. Tomorrow the sun would rise and they would set up a battle plan. _Allons, they had experienced worst situations than that!_ Soon, this umpteenth plane crash would be just a memory of which they would laugh together.

Haddock fell asleep without even realizing it, his belly warmed up by the hot cocoa, as if he were at home in Marlinspike Hall, with his cat snuggled on the quilt and his familiar things around him. He did not feel it when he was helped down on a makeshift mattress and tucked into a blanket, nor did he hear the wind rise and howl around the cabin like the ghost of a wolf.

He had not notice that Tintin had pulled away gently to go help the others settle down. He heard nothing of the Thom(p)sons' fussing over the beds, nor of Nestor's collapse when he discovered that he had no spare linen, nor of Calculus almost falling into a crevasse when he went to the loo. The young reporter managed all the crises, big or small, then, when everyone had finally fallen asleep, he retired again to the cockpit, drawing the curtain behind him.

There the air was icy, scintillating. The cracked cockpit shone like crystal and the immense night full of frozen stars, above the white mountain, made Tintin feel like he was back on the Moon.

He sat back into the torn leather seat, wrapped himself in his blanket and leaned back with a groan. Snowy climbed on his knees and snuggled under the warm, thick woolen blanket with a small yap that could mean a lot of things - _Cold! Not had enough to eat! Go home?_

_What will become of us, Tintin?_

\- "I don't know, Snowy…" Tintin mumbled, stroking the small white dog that was yawning. "I don't know how to tell them, you see, that there's no hope of repairing the radio… that if we want to make it out alive, we'll probably have to come down the mountain on our own... and that I am not at all sure _I_ can do it..."

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, trying to take a deep breath to calm his anxiety. The sudden burst of pain took his breath away and his knuckles whitened, tight on the bars on each side of the seat, as he tried to keep quiet. Snowy whimpered in concern.

Panting, Tintin waited for the stars that had nothing to do with those in the firmament to clear his vision. His teeth had drawn blood from his bitten lip and the copper taste almost made him gag. Forehead flooded with sweat, he pressed his fists against his eyes. These tears of exhaustion, there was no way he would let them come out, not when the lives of his friends depended on him.

_I _need_ to take them home. I _will_ take them home._

* * *

**_TBC_**

* * *

**_Note: In the French version, the Captain "vouvoie"Tintin (and it gives their relationship A LOT of depth, I must say. I do think that 'my' reason is the right one. The fact that an old sea dog doesn't say "tu" to such a young lad means he respects him a lot). ___But sometimes, the Captain does "tutoie" Tintin. I_t doesn't happen often, but it's usually when he's greatly in distress - like thinking that Tintin will kill himself over doing something dangerous or when he's really upset because he can't find words to comfort him - like in Tibet, for example. I didn't know how to convey that in English but I hope the emotion wasn't completely lost in translation... I love these two and I want to them justice in the language YOU are used to read them..._**


	3. Three

**CHAPTER 3**

* * *

Nestor woke up first. It took him a few minutes to remember where he was and why he had slept fully dressed, wrapped in a woolen blanket that smelled like mothballs and lying on the floor of an airplane, wearing a nightcap that did not belong to him.

Professor Calculus, still asleep, was bubbling happily, curled up next to him, holding close his umbrella. The snow and the morning sun were bathing everything in the cabin in rose gold.

Nestor stifled a small moan of distress when he finally remembered the crash. _Oh, mon Dieu, he wished he had never agreed to come, that he had stayed in Marlinspike Hall… and to think Monsieur and Monsieur Tintin often found themselves in such situations… mon Dieu!_ It made him feel faint.

But a stylish butler must serve his master in any circumstance, and Nestor prided himself on being one of the best. So he got up - with some difficulty, because he was not so young anymore and his joints were creaking after spending the night on the floor - and he dusted his clothes as best he could, before looking around and thinking about what was best to tackle first.

At the back of the plane, the Thom(p)sons, snuggled together like two lost puppies, were muttering and kicking in their dreams, next to the captain who was snoring like a blacksmith's bellows (there were still miracles: how could anyone fall asleep next to such a ruckus?). The ripped suitcases, the overturned seats, the wooden and metal debris, the torn electric wires, all of this had been more or less pushed aside to make room. The (empty) hot chocolate thermos and the (dirty) tin cups were still on the makeshift table from the day before.

Nestor's breath was condensing, and he rubbed his gloved hands together to try to warm them up. He was wearing his coat buttoned up to the top and had put on his rabbit fur-trimmed cap, but even so he was still very cold.

_Well, first things first, he needed to make breakfast. There was coffee ready to be ground and, among other things, some home-made cookies in the travel bag from which the thermos had come out the day before. As for water... maybe they could boil some snow? Worst things had been done in order to get a proper meal during the war, after all. But they had neither pots or stove… Ah! Monsieur Tintin, surely, would know what to do about that!_

Nestor carefully stepped over the professor and headed for the front of the plane. He lifted the curtain and stooped to go inside the cockpit, dazzled by the sun that was filling it, sparkling on the frosted board.

Snowy greeted him with a short bark and Tintin stirred, poking his head out of the blanket in which they were curled up.

\- "Hello, Nestor," he mumbled, blinking at the light.

His face was pale. He had the mauve-tinted dark circles of someone who hasn't slept a wink and who was just starting to fall asleep. There were many scratches on his forehead and chin – cuts from the glass shards of the cracked cockpit when they had crashed, no doubt.

\- "Good morning, Monsieur Tintin", said the butler. "Oh, please, don't get up, monsieur. I just wanted to ask you something."

Tintin let his weary head fall back against the leather backrest and he pulled the blanket closer to his neck in a childlike movement. An involuntary wince contracted for a second his drawn features. Snowy jumped from his lap and trotted to the other side of the curtain.

\- "Did you sleep well, Nestor? How's the forehead?"

The butler absentmindedly touched the bandage on the small wound that Tintin had disinfected the day before under the moonlight.

\- "I slept very well considering the circumstances, monsieur, and I think this little sore is on the mend", he replied.

He hesitated, pressed his gloved hands together, coffee completely forgotten. His brows twitched and his jowls trembled a bit.

\- "But _you_, monsieur… I suppose you don't want to worry Monsieur, the Professor and these gentlemen from the police, but… you _are_ injured, aren't you?" he choked, distraught.

Tintin smiled, touched and amused at the same time in seeing the always so composed old man so flustered.

\- "I'm not going to die, Nestor," he said gently. He straightened up with a groan, letting the blanket slip to the ground, and brushed off the situation with a light smile. "I've got a broken rib, that's all."

_Or two, or three, if he was to guess from the fire burning in his side every time he tried to breathe in deeply._

Nestor's eyes widened.

\- "But you must be in a lot of pain!" he stammered. "Is there nothing I can do to help?"

\- "Actually, there is something", said Tintin whose brain had finally woken up enough to calculate that he'd better put the butler on his side if he wanted the rest of the crew to focus on their rescue rather than worry about the youngest member of the family. "I'll tell you what..."

Nestor had seen many bumps, wounds and sprained ankles since he had come to be at Captain Haddock's service. He had visited his master and the young reporter numerous times in the hospital. He wasn't a weak man, but he was far from being prepared for the vision he had when Tintin, shivering in the icy air, lifted his undershirt after painfully taking off his blue sweater and unbuttoning his white shirt.

The lad's left side was only a large bruise, a palette of purple and yellow tender skin streaked with blackish blue veins.

\- "It doesn't hurt as bad as it looks", said Tintin very quickly when he saw Nestor recoiling.

That was not true, of course, but he almost felt real relief in pretending otherwise to reassure the old servant.

He handed Nestor the rolled strips of gauze he had collected from the plane's emergency kit the day before. He had neither found the courage nor the strength to bind his chest on his own.

\- "Don't be afraid to make it tight", he said bravely. "The less I can strain them, the faster I'll heal." *

The ten minutes that followed were just as interminable for the young reporter who was clenching his teeth fiercely, his face pale and glistening with sweat, than they were for the butler turned into a nurse who was perspiring profusely, squeaking "sorry!" from time to time, forcing his hands that were more used to waving a feather duster into finishing their dreadful but necessary task.

\- "There, monsieur, it's done" Nestor finally mumbled, his legs shaky, catching himself up on the dashboard, after he had helped his patient get dressed again.

Tintin sagged into the torn pilot's seat. He felt nauseous, exhausted and dizzy. Black dots were dancing before his eyes and stars were flashing behind his eyelids. Each intake of breath was like thrusting a burning dagger into his side. His stomach was churning, his head throbbing and his ears buzzing.

He opened his eyes when Nestor's cold hand touched his forehead and swallowed hard as the hellish carousel that swept the world away slowed down a bit.

\- "Monsieur is calling me," said the butler softly. "Try to get some rest, please. I will hold the fort until you feel better."

Tintin nodded weakly, mumbled "thank you" when the old man tucked him in the blanket and allowed himself to sink into a fog as thick as soup, while the captain's voice was booming somewhere very far away.

\- "Billions of blue blistering barnacles! Where have you been, Nestor? That dratted dog wolfed down the cookies you had left lying around. What did Tintin say? Will the radio be repaired anytime soon? I've had more than enough of this stranded ship, I want to go back to Marlinspike Hall!"

\- "So do I, monsieur, so do I…" sighed poor Nestor in spite of himself. Then he shook himself back to reality, vigorously dabbed his balding forehead with a checkered handkerchief and resumed his air of studied nonchalance. "Forgive me, monsieur, it's a mistake I won't do again. Now, monsieur, if you'd please wait just a little bit, I'd make breakfast in a moment."

Haddock looked at him curiously.

\- "Are you quite all right, Nestor? What were you doing in there? You're no expert in that radio stuff…"

He paused, lowered his voice as if he was worried the others might hear him, although it was quite impossible: Calculus was crouching on the other end of the plane - presumably examining something with his pendulum - and the Thom(p)sons were outside making a snowman, if one were to believe the echoes of their conversation.

\- "It's bad, isn't it? The radio can't be repaired?"

Nestor coughed lightly.

\- "I don't know, monsieur. I am no expert", he deadpanned, while maneuvering cleverly to place himself in between the cockpit and his master. "Monsieur Tintin is on the case, he just recommended that we don't disturb him. You ... er ... do you have any idea how we could boil some water, monsieur? I'm sure a good cup of coffee would get us all back on track."

-"I'd rather have a good ol' finger of whiskey", Haddock huffed.

Nestor's long face lit up.

\- "Oh, I think I may be able to help you, monsieur. I took the liberty of packing several bottles from the small cellar, upon hearing the tale of your previous stay in Syldavia and the bother it had been to find proper liquors around the place."

\- "Ah, Nestor! What would I do without you?" cheered the captain, feeling suddenly a lot better, as he followed his butler with the eagerness of a child who has been promised a treat.

The Thom(p)sons came back inside soon afterwards and came up with all kinds of absurd ideas for heating the water - "and toasting the bread, Nestor! Breakfast without butter and jam toasts is like a desert without an oasis!"

\- "To be more precise: like a sea without a boat! A lady without a hat! A-"

\- "Oh shut up, you pair of babbling baboons. We will be glad if we can have a bite of anything with this confounded four-legged thief lurking around!"

\- "Are you suggesting there's a thief in the premises, Captain, that the police is not aware of?" immediately asked Thompson, looking slightly offended, while his colleague leaned over, startled: "You're not talking about... the yeti, are you?"

Haddock rolled his eyes, exasperated.

\- "Oh, do follow, you ninny bunch of waterlilies! I'm talking about Snowy who snatched a whole box of cookies from us this morning, while you were busy acting the goat in the snow!"

\- "_Acting the goat_?" popped in Calculus, his little black mustache already bristling dangerously.

\- "Not you, Cuthbert, not you!" the captain hastened to say.

\- "Oh!" cried the professor, already distracted away. "Oh! But do you happen to be preparing breakfast, Nestor? I don't think you'll be able to boil enough water for us all in that tiny tin cup of yours, not to mention that you might… there you go! I was about to tell you, you'd burn your fingers with this match, my friend."

\- "You're the genius here, Cuthbert, so find us a trick or we'll have to pull the boy scout from his radio repairs so he can help us make some campfire", groaned the captain.

Truth be told, Haddock could very well make the fire himself, but he was worried because he had not yet seen Tintin. _It was not in the young reporter's habits to lock himself away, without even saying good morning... something was wrong. Was the radio really broken? What was he hiding from them?_

The captain liked to pose as a father figure in their crazy sort-of-family. It was up to him to bear the burden of worrying about their rescue - or at least he had to carry it _with_ Tintin. It was not _fair_ that the lad was _always_ the one who got them out of trouble…

\- "Oh, but I _do_ have it right here!" cried Calculus, who, once again, had heard something he hadn't been told. He rushed to the pile of suitcases, began to scatter everything around him to the great chagrin of Nestor and the Thom(p)sons who had gathered everything the day before and to Snowy's great delight. "Come on, where did I put it? ... I thought it might be fun for the children… and I had hoped Tintin would borrow it for a hike, it would have mean well-written feedbacks and better data... oh, but I didn't know you were aware I was working on this, Archibald!... Sapristi, where is it, now? Ah, there it is!"

Triumphantly, he re-emerged from the pile of luggage with a large oblong duffel bag, tripped over the dog that was jumping around him and was fortunately caught by the captain and Thompson.

-"I beg your pardon, little girl," the scientist said absently, pushing back his green hat and rolling up his sleeves. "Behold, gentlemen," he said, "Cuthbert Calculus' camping kit! Everything you need to go study butterflies and weather variations without leaving comfort behind!"

And he unpacked before their amazed eyes a travel-size stove in perfect working order, a red enamel coffee pot, an assortment of cups, plates and nestable pans, a foldable seat which he assembled in a jiffy and on which immediately settled a rather pleased Thomson, a small table equipped with an umbrella and a dozen iron rods which he explained were parts of a tent's frame.

\- "… because the bag, you see, is actually a folded canvas, gentlemen, made of fabric as impermeable to rain as it is to the sun's rays and capable of keeping indoors temperatures that are quite cozy, even when it's freezing outside!"

Thompson, in wonder, was nodding stupidly. Nestor had joined hands, grateful and devoured by the urge to use these shiny utensils right away. The captain grabbed Calculus by his scrawny shoulders and stuck a resounding kiss on each of the old man's cheeks.

\- "Cuthbert, I don't think I say it enough, but you're a darn genius!"

\- "Well, I wouldn't say it'd be a fuss, but making it fireproof would take quite some time, still", replied the good scientist placidly. "But if it'd make you _that_ happy, I can work on it… once we get back home, of course."

\- "Professor, if you didn't exist, someone would need to invent you", said Tintin's bright voice behind them.

They turned on their heels at once, opening their mouths all together, but he silenced them with an imperative gesture, calming at the same time Snowy who was jumping happily around him. He handed his ear-trumpet to Calculus and gathered everyone around the providential camping kit.

\- "Gentlemen, _this_ here is our good news. With the Professor's invention, we will be able to put all the odds on our side when going down the mountain."

_He didn't seem hurt. Pale, tired ... you had to count on the fact that he had certainly spent the night thinking of a way to get them out of this. A little stiff, perhaps - probably bruised here and there, like them all - but except for the small cuts on his face, which were nothing, really, compared to the scratches the condor had left on his face in Peru, he seemed unharmed. All was well._

Haddock was too busy sneaking worried glances at Tintin to think about asking the inevitable question, but others did it for him.

\- "So… what's bad news, then? asked Thompson.

\- "To be precise: what's mad booze, then?" chimed in Thomson.

The young reporter came closer and put the charred radio box on the makeshift table.

\- "Bad news is that nobody knows where we are," he said darkly. "We have no way of reaching the emergency services and I even suspect the flying taxi company to be bought: I doubt they will report the loss of one of their planes before several days - maybe even several weeks. We can only rely on ourselves. "

Haddock nodded, while the gravity of the situation sank in each heart, then he patted Tintin's shoulder, not noticing the young man's slight wince.

\- "Well, we _will_ rely on ourselves, then. And that'll be more than enough! We made it out of worst places in the past, mates."

\- "Aye, aye! Well said, Captain!" cheered Thompson.

\- "To be precise: whale sad, Kepten!" chimed in Thomson.

\- "I knew it! That's the spirit of the man who did not hesitate to go to the Moon for the good of humanity!" cried Calculus admiringly. "A pioneer, a leader of men who deserves to be freed from the influence of alcohol!"

\- "Thundering Typhoons! Hold me back, Tintin", roared the captain. "Or I swear to Loch Lomond, if he talks about these blasted pills again, I'll throttle him!"

\- "Oh mon Dieu, oh mon Dieu", bawled Nestor while Snowy barked and jumped all around them, adding to the ruckus.

Atop the pristine mountain, the crashed plane was glittering like a piece of glass in the sun. Vultures that were nested a little lower noticed it and took flight in the blue sky to go to examine it more closely.

And down in the valley, a Bordurian peasant who was tapping his boots full of snow against the step in front of his door, saw this strange shining reflection and signed himself just in case.

* * *

_**TBC**_

* * *

**_* Well… although it _****was_ common to do so in 1961 (my setting time for that story), binding your chest can actually be quite dangerous and could lead to further injuries, so I'd advise you not to do the same at home if you ever find yourself with broken ribs (whether after a dreadful plane crash or a plain fall down the stairs). Do ask a specialist on the matter._**


	4. Four

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

First, they began with taking a hearty breakfast of some homemade _cramique _cake, Liege syrup, 'pistol' breads and _Passendale_ that Nestor had packed at random, not knowing what would be on the shelves of the cellar in Villa Sprok (and fearing he'd find there only the terrible Syldavian cheese against which the captain had warned him), all washed down with some black coffee.

Then Tintin, who had barely touched his plate, concentrating on studying a map of Syldavia and scribbling in his notebook, organized the preparations.

It went from inventorying all the food that was left on the plane, to dressing warmly and making sure everybody wore proper outdoor shoes, dividing all they were going to need to go through three or four days of hiking in five bags and packing any personal items that could not be abandoned because, of course, they would have to leave a lot of things atop the mountain and no one - apart from Thomson, perhaps - was a fool: they knew they would probably never come back.

All this made the next two hours very busy and the sun, meanwhile, rose high in the sky, announcing a splendid winter day.

The captain, who was looking for a way to stuff more bottles of whiskey in the rucksack he had used in Tibet - and which Nestor, for some unknown reason, had thought fit to pack in their vacation luggage – paused when he heard a familiar but very incongruous clicking sound.

He went around the cabin and found Tintin in front of an overturned battered metal box, on which was the small suitcase of his typewriter.

It was the sound of the steel keys on which the young man was thoughtfully pressing that had drawn near the captain.

\- "A-d-i-e-u, v-i-e-i-l-l-e c-a-m-a-r-a-d-e..."

The typebar pinged! happily and came back in place effortlessly when Tintin activated the lever.

The old _Olympia_ was well maintained.

The captain coughed to signal his presence. He leaned his heavily loaded rucksack on the edge of the metal box and took a light tone to try to dissipate the cloud he could see on the reporter's forehead.

\- "Bah, you'll buy another one. This one looks like she already lived longer than she was meant to!"

Tintin's smile didn't reach his eyes.

\- "You bet... I bought it in January 52, on the liner, when I was returning from China. It was not new at the time, and I had to do the dishes for the rest of the trip to pay for my meals, but it was worth it. I _had_ to write down that adventure, I couldn't wait!"

\- "How old were you, at that time, son?" Haddock asked softly, failing to find something better to say.

\- "Fifteen. Chang was thirteen... I was just a kid, yeah, they were right. All the same… it was after that article that people started to take me seriously."

He shrugged but the knot was still there, in his throat, very audible.

\- "That old girl spent ten years with me, Captain… I typed almost all my articles on it."

Haddock desperately sought inspiration, a word to comfort the young man while the latter carefully closed the suitcase, but he found nothing again. He cleared his throat loudly.

\- "There's still room in my rucksack," he said gruffly. "I don't have to take all of these bot... er ... well, these... er… _Anyway_. What I mean is that if we carefully monitor our national pair of blundering bumbles, there's no reason we should need to disinfect one from head to toe before arriving at the villa. So, uh... I can probably carry your typewriter in my bag."

Tintin shook his head. He smiled again, but this time with that youthful brightness that was his signature.

\- "Thank you, Captain. You're sport."

\- "But?" said Haddock, raising an eyebrow.

He knew the young reporter very well.

\- "_But_ this is not the time to be sentimental. The survival of our friends is what matters most", Tintin said firmly. "Remember Tibet, when the coolies ran away. This time again, we'll have to crane everything we can in our bags."

And on this, he heartlessly removed several bottles from the captain's rucksack, then dragged him away, putting a hand on his shoulder.

\- "Come on, let's go back to the others. I reckon we're pretty much ready for this expedition."

The Thom(p)sons had donned identical black coats - a standard model from Interpol, no doubt - and put on their bowler hats after wrapping their heads in scarves. It was not very fashionable, but it would be effective in protecting them from the cold. They had managed to get all their Tintin-approved things into their twin suitcases and stood ready to go, canes in hand, mustaches freshly sleeked.

Nestor was carefully finishing buttoning up the overcoat of Professor Calculus who had first indignantly protested in a high-pitched voice that he was "a respectable erudite man who did not need to be nannied like an old goat", but who then had been distracted by Snowy who was furiously scratching himself to get rid of his own little coat.

\- "This dog is infested with fleas, my boy."

\- "He's perfectly fine, professor," said Tintin patiently. "I took him to the vet last week. He just can't stand his coat, that's all. But there's no way I'd let him wander in the snow without some layers, he's getting old, you know."

\- "_How?_ Sapristi, my boy, sometimes you show so clueless, it's almost worrying… Just take him to the vet, obviously…"

Haddock shook his head, sighing, and put in his pocket the ear-trumpet that Tintin had just found forgotten on a torn airplane chair.

\- "We're ready, monsieur," said Nestor, straightening up.

He too had opted for a muffler wrapped around his head, but he was obviously hesitant about topping it with his hat. He ended up deciding to do so when he saw his master imitate the local fashion and still wear his navy cap. The captain, who had been travelling in his chatelain clothes, had now put on his good old blue wool sweater with the black anchor embroidered on the chest.

He could still fit in his black jacket in spite of the cholesterol against which the doctor had again warned him and was boasting outrageously about it. Calculus, meanwhile, kept arguing that this blessed return into shape was due to the alcohol-free diet Haddock had followed against his will after their adventure with the Picaros.

It was true that he looked great indeed, the old sea dog, quietly lighting his pipe at the top of the snow-capped mountain as if he could care less about what the world was going to throw at them. Nestor had polished the copper buttons of the jacket earlier this winter, probably caressing the absurd hope that his master would finally donate it to a charity, and they shone like gold in the sun.

His hands on his hips, Tintin reviewed his troops, nodding approvingly.

\- "Well gentlemen, I think we've covered everything. Let's go and may Heaven be with us!"

He waited until they had started to go down the gentle snowy slope just below the crash site, to turn to his backpack and glare at it with somber resolve.

-"You and me, my friend."

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

At first, everything went very well. The weather was magnificent, the cold air rather pleasant coupled with the warm sun, the snow firm and crisp, the trekking down quite easy.

The Thom(p)sons, who were walking in front, were in a good mood and had started singing.

\- _"Boom ! Quand vot' moteur fait Boum ! __La dépanneuse Simoun'…"_

As they no longer knew the words of the radio jingle, which had gone out of fashion half a dozen years before, they quickly fell back to the original lyrics, quibbling when one of the two was taking the note too high or too low.

Calculus, who came next, his black umbrella in a hand and his suitcase in the other, was quick to accompany them with his shrill voice... but, obviously, not on the same melody.

\- _"… pourquoi m'avoir donné rendez-vous sous la pluie… j'ai mes chaussettes qui font trempette…"_

Nestor was slower to get started, perhaps because he was focusing on his feet, not used to climbing up or down any kind of hill, never mind a mountain. But then, without even thinking about it, he began to hum too - and quite irreverently, actually.

_\- "Y'a des gens pour être heureux, c'qui leur en faut des choses…"_

It was only a matter of time before the captain's beautiful baritone voice joined them, echoing across the cliffs.

_\- "Viens par ici, veux-tu, ma blonde… là-bas, il y a trop de monde…"_

He was getting to the part with the lake of ducks, when the lovers find themselves in a leaking rowboat, when he suddenly realized that Tintin was just behind him. He then abruptly shut up, turning beet-red as if he had been caught singing a saucy verse.

\- "Don't worry, there's no risk of avalanche" quipped the young man, not managing to completely hide the sparkle of laugh in his eyes (he had heard much worse from his colleagues of _Le Petit Vingtième_). "Please, do go on. I'd love to know if that persistent suitor will succeed in the end."

The old sailor turned his back on him, grumbling in his beard something about baby-faced journalists who were know-it-all Casanovas and that he would never be found again celebrating love which was nothing but a pipe dream, Thundering typhoons! … But a few minutes later, caught up in the ambient virus again, he was heartily bellowing "_Hardi les gars, vire au guindeau… goodbye, farewell, goodbye, farewell_".

Now you could be sure they would not see a bear, an ibex, or the slightest groundhog. All that was missing was Bianca Castafiore at the top of this mountain for this musical to be complete and it really was a shame that nobody could record the vigorous choristers.

\- "Woof", snorted Snowy who was not amused at all with this cacophony.

\- "You're right, old boy, it's like listening to a band of deaf soloists. It's even worse than Marlinspike fanfare", chuckled Tintin. Then, holding his ribs, he winced: "Oh, don't make me laugh!"

He would have joined in the concert, although he was better whistler than singer - but he was already having enough trouble keeping his breathing steady while walking.

Putting his bag on his back had almost made him pass out. The stars that had exploded before his eyes, plunging him into darkness, had only dissipated after a few minutes, leaving him panting, drenched in sweat, legs as weak as jelly.

The others had stopped to wait for him and called out to him, puzzled that he was not leading the way. He had caught up with them, bravely putting up a front, joking and diverting the attention from his red and tense face, but he was starting to wonder how long he would last, let alone hide his injury. The weight of the rucksack was taking his breath away, each step was a torture and only the thought that he had to bring everyone back home gave him the strength to move forward.

The slightest distraction was welcome and, listening to the others singing romances at the top of their heads, he got lost in a strange reverie.

_"Une valse à trois temps qui s'offre encore le temps… une valse à cent ans… une valse a mis l'temps, de patienter vingt ans…" __* _

Although none of them had white hair yet, his friends were no longer so young. At the time when the songs which returned to them so spontaneously had been engraved in their memories, what had they looked like? What had they been dreaming of?

Somehow, these old bachelors who seemed so attached to their "freedom" had remained hopelessly romantic - or terribly old fashioned, as you liked. They hadn't married, but had that really been a choice? Was their teasing in fact regrets or disguised advice? _Life flies too fast, Tintin. If you find it, don't let go of happiness, it might never come back..._

The reporter had once heard Thompson saying that his colleague had been engaged in the past. It was hard to believe now, but war changed a man… especially one who had been a prisoner...

The two good-natured police officers loved children, familiar routine, and it was not difficult to imagine them going home - on neighboring doorsteps, of course - and being greeted by nice ladies wearing polka dot aprons and chubby kids who would put on their bowler hats and climb happily on their shoulders…

And these white roses which Professor Calculus took so much care of… perhaps he would have preferred to offer them to a young girl with bright shining eyes, whose forehead he would have kissed before leading her to the altar...

Maybe these songs only told of a mirage, a chimera that faded after a few years of marriage... but Tintin tended to want to believe in it anyway.

Perhaps because the last memory of the only real home he had ever had, before it had shattered in a million pieces a certain December 16, 1944, during the reprisal bombings on Antwerp, was of his mother's smiling face while she tied his scarf, before they'd go to the cinema with his father to see Buffalo Bill...

He had been quite happy at Saint-Boniface Institute - as much as you could be when you were seven and sent to a boarding school by distant cousins who didn't want to raise you and had made it clear that you were one too many mouth to feed – but the good fathers could not replace a family.

He had fond memories of his apartment at _26 Rue du Labrador_, despite the neighbors' noise, the heat in summer, the freezing cold in winter, the windows that got stuck, the multiple burglaries... because he had paid the first rent with his first real salary and because it was also the first place that had been _his_ (and Snowy's!).

But it was with visiting regularly his friends in Marlinspike Hall, then coming to live there with them - and he still couldn't pinpoint exactly _when_ he had moved in. It had happened quietly, quite naturally... - that he had remembered what a home was.

A window that would light up when you were on your way home... someone who was always waiting for you... people who forgave you for your faults and were even happier than you for your successes... a dozen little things so important that the idea of losing them made you feel sick…

_Strolling together in the countryside, chatting about everything and nothing... waking up on Saturday morning and listening with a chuckle to the usual argument over the need to polish the brass every week... running to the rescue to realize that this cloud of red smoke at the back of the park was just another false alarm in the laboratory... reading curled up in the bow-window's cushions on a rainy day, Snowy's fluffy head heavy on his lap... the familiar sizzle of a jazz record... the blissful warmth of the fireplace… the smell of a certain brand of Belgian brown tobacco..._

\- "Everything all right, lad?"

Tintin blinked. He did not immediately understand where he was.

The sky was very big, very blue above him, and the snow-covered mountains were sparkling in the sun.

He felt fuzzy, peaceful, detached from everything… like if he was floating… and when Captain Haddock's dark beard and cap appeared in his field of vision, he smiled vaguely at them... and then he was pulled from his torpor by a resounding slap.

\- "Blistering barnacles, landlubber, come back to your senses! What's with you keeling over out of nothing?"

* * *

_**TBC** _

* * *

*** Jacques Brel, _La valse à mille temps _(1954). ****I had to bring him in since he was Belgian and contemporary of Hergé !**

**As for the other songs (which are just hilarious), here they are if you want to listen to them:**

**The Thom(ps)sons are singing _Boum _from Charles Trenet (1938).**

**Calculus is singing _Rendez-vous sous la pluie_ from Jean Sablon (1936).**

**Nestor is singing _La Java de Doudoune _from Jean Gabin & Mistinguett (1928).**

**Captain Haddock is singing _Toi et moi _from Maurice Chevalier (1937).**


	5. Five

**CHAPTER 5**

* * *

The captain was walking briskly, enjoying the fact that his muscles flexibly responded to the effort required of them. His shoulder was still a bit numb, but it was not bothersome.

He was a hale and hearty fellow and he was happy to be alive, happy to be with his friends.

The sky was bright blue and the view gorgeous - not that he was going to admit it out loud, he had to maintain his legendary aversion to the mountains - and belting out old tunes from his youth had been very amusing.

While walking, he was keeping an eye on his lanky butler who, really, was as out of place in this setting as a Chinese vase mounted on stilts would have been. He was also watching the Thom(p)sons, worried they would fall off a cliff, carried away by their song - they were _so_ capable of it, the poor saps. Calculus was trotting ahead of him with his umbrella and his suitcase, his green hat bobbing up and down the slope. Nestor had been right to button him up to the chin in a warm coat: Cuthbert was prone to catch colds, skinny and shriveled as he was.

Snowy was frolicking around, sometimes ahead of them, sometimes behind them - sniffing, pausing to lift a leg and shower a plant or a rock, barking after a grasshopper or a bird.

The captain stopped and turned again, a little concerned about the silence of the last member of the family. Tintin was slower than usual and there was not on his face the usual wonder for nature that one could read there even in circumstances completely unsuited to such admiration: on the top of the world when one was about to be drown by an avalanche or at the bottom of a jungle which only sought to devour you in one way or another, for example…

How they would get rescued still worried him, no doubt.

Haddock rekindled his pipe, then he started off quietly, telling himself that the young reporter would soon be catching up with him.

At least, Tintin must not have been cold. He was wearing the bomber jacket lined in sheepskin and those brown corduroy pants that he had taken a liking in after their trip to Australia.

It was nice to see him finally dress like someone his age and no longer like some sort of… Rouletabille!

Haddock still fondly remembered the seventeen-year-old scrawny boy who had tumbled into his cabin with his beige raincoat and his little white dog. At the time, although already recognized for his articles, Tintin often tried to pretend he was older... with little success, it had to be said. His ill-fitting second-hand suit jackets, his cheap ties, his golf pants and especially his _newsboy_ cap… all this certainly gave off the charm of a reporter from a novel, but could not convince his interlocutors of what he would have liked, namely to think of him as a respectable journalist. Over the years, he had stopped worrying about standards and, somehow, it had helped to make him look a bit more mature – even though he was still wearing baby blue sweaters. Besides, it had certainly helped when, at the age of twenty, he had been through this sudden growth spurt (Haddock sometimes wondered if it had anything to do with the trip to the Moon and all the tests they had been subjected to at the time). He still wasn't a tall man, of course, but his shoulders had broaden, his muscles nicely shaped up, and you couldn't say now that he was just a wonder sprout, a boy too clever for his age and endowed with a star decidedly well hung.

What had not changed with him, on the other hand - besides the ginger quiff and the youthful smile - were his kindness, his fearless curiosity, his resolute courage, his resourcefulness, his integrity, his intelligence and his constant good humor: all qualities which made him a man the captain was proud to call a friend.

In any case, Nestor was right: "our young Monsieur Tintin will soon make hearts swoon".

But the captain would have rather liked "soon" to come as late as possible, though.

Haddock did not wish to see Marlinspike invaded yet again by another female, as nice as this one might turn out to be, especially compared to the Castafiore, or by – and just the thought of it made him shiver – wailing toddlers and runny-nosed brats like the ones Joylon Wagg's sometimes brought with him.

And then ... well, couldn't things remain as they were now? Maybe it was very selfish on his part, but the captain loved his life as it had been going on lately. Was it because he was getting old? He preferred what others would have called boring routine to the excitement of their adventures.

It had started with hearing the train whistling in the distance and feeling his heart swell with joy ... jumping to an energetic _ding-don_g at the door ... shaking his head, amused, looking out the window at the master running after the dog running after the cat in the garden ... then it had become the familiar clicking of the typewriter in the Study ... the reckless stampede of someone young running down the stairs ... a bright and sunny burst of laughter somewhere in the big house...

How silly it was - and how sweet, at the same time…

_Nursing a double-whiskey by the fire and, from time to time, raising his head to watch Tintin immersed in his book, snuggled with his dog on the bow-window seat… listening to Cuthbert pep up enthusiastically about his latest invention and forgetting the soup served in the blue porcelain plates… Arguing with Nestor when he found him risking breaking his neck perched at the top of a stepladder to polish the chandeliers … fishing the Thom(p)sons out of the fountain or towing once again their poor bumped 2cv … Strolling with Tintin in the countryside, chatting about everything and nothing while good old Snowy dug up bones and ran after butterflies ..._

He never got tired of chatting with Tintin. There was always something to think about together, to comment, to debate, or just to remember. The young reporter's ability to learn from his experiences, his perseverance in searching for a new story, his inexhaustible faith in humanity never ceased to amaze the old sea dog. Their age difference was never a problem. Sometimes the boy was actually the one who showed more maturity.

The captain had long since stopped asking himself what he had done to earn Tintin's friendship. He simply enjoyed the moments spent in his company, refusing to even imagine that one day they might only be memories...

Snowy started to bark, pulling him from his reverie just in time so as not to tripped over the dog running back up the slope.

He turned around and a steel hand crushed his heart. For a moment, his breathing cut off, he felt like if the whole mountain had frozen, stilled, tarnished.

Tintin was lying on the ground, a few meters higher on the path.

_Why? How? What happened? Who did…? Oh, mon garçon !_

Tearing off his pipe from his mouth and stuffing it precipitously into the breast pocket of his jacket, Haddock ran after the white terrier, not caring for the calls and exclamations of the others. When he reached the young reporter, he knelt down, removed the rucksack, carefully rolled the boy to look at him.

Tintin was so very pale. His eyes were closed, his discolored lips bitten to a drop of blood, his neck soaked with sweat ...

_Nobody had shot or clubbed him. He probably just had fainted from exhaustion._

The captain forced himself to take a deep breath to dissipate the familiar panic that was growing in him, causing his blood to rush in his ears, making him dizzy.

_No, it wouldn't be today._

He patted the young man's cheeks, calling him in a stifled, urgent voice, which became more imperious when he saw that it was working, when Tintin blinked weakly.

Snowy was whimpering pitifully and wanted to lick his master's face. Haddock pushed him aside.

\- "Tintin! Tintin!"

The young reporter took a glassy look around him.

\- "Brown tobacco..." he slurred.

\- "Everything all right, lad?" stammered the captain.

Then as Tintin's eyes rolled back again, he got carried away, panicked, and almost shook him, despite the protests of the others who had gathered around them.

\- "Blistering barnacles, landlubber, come back to your senses! What's with you keeling over out of nowhere?"

Perhaps the slap had been disproportionate, but at least it had had the merit of being effective.

Tintin jerked awake, shaking his head to get rid of his torpor. He made a move to straighten up and fell back, gasping.

\- "Can't… breathe..." he wheezed.

His hand grabbed the sleeve of the old sailor in a feverish, begging grip. His nails dug into Haddock's wrist. In the dilated eyes of the young man, the captain saw the shadow of Ishia's terror.

\- "Calm down. You can breathe all right", he said quickly. "Listen to me, boy, you're no longer in that blasted tank. Can you hear me, Tintin? You're _free_. There's air – plenty of nice, fresh air, here. Look, we're in the mountains, your dear mountains."

He propped him up against his knees, wincing at the stifled cry the reporter couldn't hold back. Calculus and Snowy crowded on either side of him, worried. The Thom(p)sons, uncharacteristically quiet, were not taking their eyes off them either.

The calloused hand of Haddock kept on gently squeezing Tintin's slender shoulder, repeating that everything was fine, that he could breathe, that he was not trapped in the melted polyester in which he had almost been morbidly immortalized ... until the young man's hitched breathing gradually subsided, his chest ceased to rise erratically, his clenched hand released the sleeve of the black jacket.

\- "It's over... you're safe, son... it's over..."

A thunderstorm was brewing in the captain's throat - a storm of curses, anguish, guilt, reproaches - but he contained himself.

\- "How do you feel?"

Tintin, exhausted, was trembling nervously. Hot tears had seeped down his temples, mingled with the sweat that stuck to his hair.

\- "Hurts..." he stammered, defeated.

Nestor leaned over to hand his master a tin cup filled with water.

\- "He was injured during the crash, monsieur. A broken rib, I believe."

Haddock cursed in a low voice.

\- "More likely two or three, I reckon! And you were not going to tell us, obviously! To think you carried that bag for eight miles without... I... how can you... Thundering typhoons, Tintin, what kind of friends do you take us for?"

He hadn't really asked the question for an answer, but suddenly a cold draft swished by in the silence at the top of the mountain. A cloud passed in front of the sun, the light became dull and greyish.

\- "I... no, I don't… I..."

Tintin had gratefully accepted the cup before his lips, drank half a sip. Then the water had taken a bitter taste. Suddenly he was no longer thirsty, and even the pain in his ribs seemed insignificant compared to the pained expression he thought he saw in the eyes of the others.

_The Thom(p)sons, Calculus ... the captain ... they were not talking, because they were disappointed, hurt ... because of him ... Was that really the message he was sending? Did he really reflect that he did not think they could take care of themselves? Was he so arrogant?_

He struggled to sit up, to say it was wrong, that he didn't ...

A white-hot stab in his side made white sparks flare before his eyes and the mountain faded away again, while a wave roared in his ears and took him back to the darkness.

* * *

_"Earth calling Moon Rocket, please respond" ... "Earth calling Moon Rocket, please respond"... "Allo, Allo... Well done, Tintin! Well done! Now go back to your bunk. Will you have the strength to? Tintin, Tintin!"… "Earth calling Moon Rocket, please respond"…_

There was not enough air left, but he had done his duty.

He had saved them all.

* * *

When he regained consciousness this time, his head was resting on a jacket folded over Calculus' knees. The scientist was seated on the ground, protected from the cold by the captain's raincoat stretched out on the snow.

They had wrapped him in several blankets and Snowy was curled up against him, like a small living hot water bottle. The dog squealed and waved his tail gently when he saw his master wake up and this time nobody stopped him from happily licking Tintin's face.

The truth came back to the young reporter suddenly, stinging. _No, he hadn't saved them. On the contrary._

He wanted to cry, but the knot in his throat added to the feeling of drowning, so he swallowed it up as best he could.

\- "He's coming round!" Calculus chirped above his head, looking very much relieved. "Saperlipopette, my boy, you gave us quite a fright, here... No, please don't move. We have everything in hand, so don't you worry."

The sun had moved. It was lower and the snow-capped summits were taking on purple shades under the red gold sky. The plane, in the twilight, was sparkling like a star ripped from the firmament, a dozen kilometers higher on the mountain.

\- "Nightfall, already?" Tintin stuttered, dismayed.

\- "You did sleep for a while," said the professor gently. "And during this time, we have come a long way. But now we are setting up camp."

He gestured to something, but Tintin could not see anything in the dimming light, with the rocks behind which they were settled - and which undoubtedly protected them from the wind.

\- "The Thom(p)sons finished putting up the tent earlier," continued Calculus cheerfully. "They're resting now. Nestor is cooking a wonderful dinner."

\- "The captain?"

\- "I'm here, lad", said the old sailor, crouching next to the young man. "How do you feel?"

Tintin groaned. He felt pretty well, wrapped in this warm cocoon and the pain was bearable as long as he didn't try to change position. Being propped up also helped him breathe better. But he wasn't sure he would not keel over right away again if he tried to get up and, frankly, he didn't even want to try.

\- "Still a bit peaky", he said.

\- "Understatement of the year", grunted Haddock. "All right, you keep quiet and you let us handle the situation. Cuthbert is responsible for monitoring you and if you try to budge, he _will_ club you."

His shaggy black beard couldn't hide his smile, though. Calculus giggled behind his ear-trumpet.

The captain got up and brushed his knees.

\- "I'm not being funny, landlubber", he warned again, waving his index finger with warning.

\- "He was awfully worried about you," said Calculus fondly, when Haddock was gone. He wiped his round glasses and put them back on his nose. "He's always grousing and bellowing, but deep down, he has a heart of gold, you know that, don't you?"

Tintin nodded. He struggled for a better position, hoping to see what was going on around him and soon gave up on it. He _really_ had presumed too much of his strength. Snowy snuggled against him. Stroking the fluffy white head of his faithful companion, the young man contented himself with questioning Calculus about what had happened while he was unconscious.

\- "The captain showed us how the coolies carry packages in Tibet and we loaded the two policemen", explained the scientist, giggling a bit maliciously (he had always kept a small resentment towards the Thom(p)sons after their involuntary hitchhiking aboard the moon rocket). "You should have seen them! They were sweating and groaning like proper camels! Then Nestor and Archibald carried you - I was taking care of the tent, you see, our most important asset."

Oh, the show it must have been, indeed. If Tintin had not been the cause of these worries, he would have regretted missing it.

\- "We walked for several kilometers, until the path became too steep to keep going in such a fashion. Then we looked for a place to spend the night. The Thom(p)sons had already fallen several times, anyway, and Nestor was out of breath. He doesn't exercise enough, you see. He should take example on me. I practiced jiu-jitsu and savate in my youth, so I'm in much better shape... "

Tintin smiled as he remembered the demonstration Calculus had given to Lazlo Carreidas just before they had taken this famous flight of which they had no memories (another crash which, for some bizarre reason, had been erased by their memory), but Cuthbert thought it was approval. He was about to embark on another talk about the need to maintain one's health when Nestor interrupted.

\- "Monsieur est servi", he announced like if he was showing up at the laboratory pavilion to pick up the professor for supper after ringing in vain for a dozen times.

Tintin braced himself for the ordeal it would be to get up. Finally, with the help of the butler and Haddock, he found himself standing, panting, exhausted, leaning with all his weight on the captain, to whom this situation reminded of another much too recent for his taste.

\- "Good thing that we don't have a cliff to climb down this time", gasped the young reporter who was also thinking of their narrow escape on Ishia's Island, in a failed attempt at making humor.

\- "Not today, at least," said Haddock darkly.

He supported Tintin to the tent and made him sit in the foldable chair, wedging a blanket behind him and tucking another over his legs.

\- "There. You should already be breathing better in this position. Do you feel fit enough to have a bite?"

The reporter shook his head, lips tightly closed. The mere mention of food made his stomach churn.

\- "Hum", said the captain. "Tomorrow maybe?"

\- "Tomorrow, surely," Tintin whispered.

Haddock leaned over, scratching Snowy's head. Then he crouched down, put his two hands on the uprights of the folding chair, on either side of the young man's knees and looked at him in the eyes.

\- "You've got to rest, landlubber. Build back your strength. Don't bother thinking about how we're going to get home. We will think about it together tomorrow – or later. No more of this nonsense fortitude, all right? It may be a scoop for you, but no one's perfect, lad, not even you. So let us take care of you, for once."

Behind the old sea dog, in the doorway of the tent, a renowned scientist who was just a little hard of hearing and two particularly blundering policemen nodded vigorously.

Tintin felt his throat tighten again.

\- "Yes, I know, I'm a marvel", said the captain gruffly.

Snowy barked his approval - unless he was celebrating Nestor's arrival with _fricadelles_.

An enthusiastic hubbub ensued, made of cries of admiration ("you outdid yourself, my friend! But how did you do that? We're in the middle of nowhere!" - "Oh, Monsieur had told me so much about his difficulties in digesting the local food that I packed some less exotic victuals... "), inevitable accidents (" Oh, Thomson, what a pity! Your plate was still half-full!), lively discussions ("Cuthbert, have you misplaced your ear-trumpet again, thundering typhoons? "), vociferations ("Snowy, you thief! Come back at once with this sausage! ") and for some time, the small tent set up on an icy mountain was the warmest place on Earth.

Tintin fell asleep somewhere along in that bubbly, simple, friendly atmosphere. Slumped against the backrest, he was still awfully pale, and his breath was still worryingly wheezing, but the shadow of a smile had wandered over his lips.

_Tomorrow maybe?_

_Tomorrow, surely._

They would be there when he woke up.

* * *

**_ TBC_**


	6. Six

**CHAPTER 6**

* * *

The morning sun was creeping into the quiet tent through the mosquito net of a rolled-up fabric window that no one had noticed the day before. The shy light hemmed in gold the sleepers' shapes and the white fur of Snowy who was curled at the feet of his master, shining on the visor of the captain's cap. The sailor was lying on his side, features drawn with fatigue, frowning in his sleep, an arm still reaching towards Tintin.

The young reporter's night had been rather agitated, constantly interrupted by pitiful moans when he moved involuntary and pain wake him with a start, anxious gasps: "can't breathe... can't breathe..." and exhausted sobs. Fifteen times, the captain had leaned in the dark to put the covers back in place, repeating: "steady, lad… I know it hurts... but it'll pass... I promise..." with amazing patience for a man of his temperament.

They had slipped into a heavy slumber shortly before morning, turned towards each other, drawing comfort from this closeness like dozens of other times.

A little further, Calculus was snoring lightly, a bubble swelling at his nostril, sometimes mumbling "... further to the west" and then suddenly rolling to the other side in a flailing of skinny limbs, smacking Nestor twice on three. The butler, who was lying stretched out, his hands crossed over his chest like a recumbent statue, remained impassible - he was a fairly heavy sleeper for a man his age.

The police officers came after them in this line of snoozing sardines.

Everything was peaceful. Outside, birds were chirping and the skittish hooves of a chamois intrigued by the tent were crunching in the snow. The mountain was superb, sparkling with whiteness under the radiant sky. It was going to be a beautiful day, again, perfect for walking, but they needed to get started quickly. No one was moving, though.

A ray of sunshine tickling his left eyelid finally bothered enough Thompson to pull him out of his doze, and he yawned widely. And like every morning for the past twenty years, the first thing he did when he woke up was to locate his colleague.

Thomson was snoring quietly beside him, with his nightcap pulled down over his forehead and thick woolen socks on his feet. He didn't seem to be cold, although they had insisted on putting on their pajamas while the others went to bed fully dressed. His mustache, which was pretty much the only thing sticking out of the blanket, was rustling with each intake of breath. From time to time, he was mumbling something incomprehensible and smiling stupidly. He must have been dreaming of something pleasant.

Thompson, who had no idea from which magic bag Nestor pulled his endless food, did not try to get up to prepare breakfast. Instead, he enjoyed staying in bed a little longer than usual. He was in no hurry to ask his aching muscles to toil again. He also knew that if he stirred, his colleague would wake up automatically. It had always been like this, even when they had first found themselves sharing this little room at the police academy after a confusion over their last names: they were, so to speak, connected, like real twins.

At the time, they were playing with it, further accentuating their resemblance by dressing exactly the same, imitating each other's manners to drive the Chef insane. Thomson had found the idea of the canes and Thompson that of the bowler hats. At the barber's, they had been roaring with laughter when they'd first seen their mustaches trimmed almost identically in the mirrors. They were young and there were so many things they dreamed of that were the same - going around the world, learning tap dance, writing a famous novel - where was the harm? They were not bad at their work, so people turned a blind eye to this constant joke.

Then war had broken out.

And when David Thompson had been forced to pin a yellow star on his sleeve, Theophile Thomson had not hesitated for a second to sew one on his too.

They had gone together at Dossin barracks after David had received a summons from Mechelen for compulsory labor, and the German officer too had laughed loudly when he had seen them come in, before writing _Thom(p)son D. T_ in his register and assigning them a convoy number.

Three weeks later, they were boarding a train bound for Auschwitz.

Theophile had never tried to correct the mistake, even when their bowler hats, their neat black suits and their canes had been taken from them, even when their identity had only been a number on a cardboard hanging from their necks, even when their heads and mustaches had been shorn, even when _laughter_ and _dreams_ had become meaningless words.

The rest, really, was just a fog and when shadows crept out of it, Thompson wiped his sweaty forehead to chase them away and looked to the skies. Yes, you had to forget in order to remember that, whether the gray clouds were weeping on the cobblestones or the sun was shining on the red slates of the roofs, there were no barbed wire on Brussels' horizon.

But there would always be some in their minds.

David and Theophile had remained prisoners _over there_. The feeble entity the train had brought back was just a common name and two initials that meant nothing.

After the war, the Chef, whose parade uniform was now covered with medals and who also walked with a cane, since he was missing a leg, had rehired them without saying a word.

The Thom(p)sons.

Bowler hats, English canes, neat black suits… people laughed when they saw these two featherweights pass by with matadors' mustaches. People laughed at their awkwardness, their nervousness, their mannerism. People laughed at Thomson's stuttering, at his difficulty in assembling his thoughts, at his stupid habit of repeating what his double said.

Nobody knew.

And what was the use to explain? Surviving the horror hadn't made them better than others. They hadn't been sent over _there_ because they were heroes, to begin with.

The Thom(p)sons.

Ordinary. Invisible. Well in line. Everything in its place, each moment timed so as not to leave any room for anxiety. Routine, routine, routine. _Never_ disobeying orders, even if the situation was completely absurd. Let people laugh at them, because that was what had always protected them, but stay true to their oath to serve their country, because that was what had kept them human.

Together, always together.

Years had gone by. They had become a bit bolder. Something of the old _them_ had resurfaced: their fascination with disguises, their desire to travel, their taste for grandiose phrases. People still didn't take them seriously, but they had gotten used to it. They were following their own path and that was all. The Chef kept on assigning to them missions no one believed them capable of handling. And, sometimes, they did manage to fulfill them.

Sometimes too, they found themselves giggling softly when they looked at each other at the end of a busy day, while bathing their tired feet, sitting in their facing armchairs, and, in the dim light of their boring little living room, the muffled laughter of Theophile and David joined them.

Then they met Tintin. Tintin who was overflowing with life, joy, energy. Tintin who was so clever, so nimble, so resourceful. Tintin who often took an interest in their investigations, who frequently helped them, who most of the time let them have the laurels. Tintin who always forgave their excesses of zeal and never seemed to think they were foolish. Tintin who called them "my friends".

Then came along the irascible sailor who gave out more orders than the Chef, who couldn't stand their slowness but always found them something to do that they could actually do, who called them every name in the book all day long and who said "our friends" when talking about them; and later they met Professor Calculus who, deaf as he was, did not allow himself to be counted for less and who made them travel farther than they would have ever thought.

And before they could even realize, _together_ had begun to mean much more than two injured initials hiding behind the same boring name. There was Tintin, the famous boy reporter. There was Snowy the dog, of course. There was Captain Haddock with his loud mouth but also his big heart, there was Professor Calculus and his mysterious pendulum, there was the Chef, there was the impossible Castafiore, there was the Fatherland... and there was them – the pudgy, bald, clumsy, happy Thom(p)sons.

_Together_ was all that.

And it felt good.

Theophile and David also thought so, and little by little, their ghosts had faded away to make room for memories.

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

Haddock, whom Nestor had forced to abandon his post at Tintin's bedside (_the butler had threatened to throw down the ravine the few bottles of whiskey his master had managed to stuff in his rucksack if he did not go freshen up and drink at least a cup of coffee_), was watching the Thom(p)sons, vaguely shaking his head, amused in spite of himself.

They were bareheaded, in shirtsleeves, shaving in front of a pocket mirror hanging from a tree branch. Giggling, they were humming together a ridiculous song and, from time to time, bumping their hips in rhythm.

The captain was split between worrying about the recruitment criteria of Interpol or just laughing at the show. These two clowns had a gift in making his blood pressure increase tenfold, but there was something peculiarly moving about them, as if they were just two kids grown up too fast. He had even pondered, at a time, about telling them to come and settle in Marlinspike Hall (their collection of eccentric bachelors would have complete), but then he had dropped the idea: Tintin would never have stopped working, if they had been living with them. Now, the young reporter was already solicited often enough by the detectives, he did not need to be served at home a reason to skip more meals while he toiled for the police.

The old sailor's gaze came back to the corner of the tent, where Nestor was trying to coax the young reporter into eating a few spoonsful of porridge, and he dragged a weary hand over his face.

Tintin was _not_ fine. That dreadful night had had exactly the result that was to be expected: the boy was now running a fever. There was no way they could lug him on a makeshift stretcher with his broken ribs and yet they _had_ to find a solution - and fast! - to bring him back to civilization.

The captain let out another big sigh and leaned his elbows on the small table, foraging in his shaggy black hair with some despair.

\- "You seem worried, old friend."

Haddock rubbed his jaw, blinking to try to dispel the sands of tiredness in his eyes. Resting his bearded chin in his palm, he didn't bother hiding the defeated slump of his shoulders as he turned to the little scientist who was sipping his second cup of tea, as comfortable atop of this snowy mountain as if he had been in Marlinspike Hall on a spring morning.

\- "I _am_ worried, Cuthbert," he said grimly.

Professor Calculus, his small green hat perched on his vast bald head, looked at him with intelligence and compassion.

\- "But you're not going to give up."

\- "No, of course not," Haddock growled. "As long as there's still a breath of life in that old carcass of mine, I will fight to keep the ship afloat, Thundering Typhoons! It's just that... not matter how I look at it, I can't see how we're going to get out of this one, old chap."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated by his helplessness and the feeling that something he should have noticed was _there_, right under his nose, and that he was missing it.

\- "If only we could fix this darn radio..."

There was a silence, during which the captain, who could no longer think straight, almost fell asleep. Then Calculus' slender fingers snapped in front of his face and he jumped, spilling his coffee over his legs.

\- "What? Iceberg straight ahead, helmsman, to starboard!"

He realized where he was and glared at the giggling professor.

\- "That makes you _laugh_?"

\- "Not at all", said the old goat.

And Haddock suddenly understood what was odd.

\- "How can you hear me? You don't have your ear trumpet."

Cuthbert Calculus, prominent physicist, Nobel Prize winner in several fields and currently the oldest of all the shipwrecked party, grinned like a kindergarten kid about to make a good joke.

Then he removed his hearing aid from his ear, fished the bulky battery from his pocket and wrapped it all carefully in his handkerchief before handing it to the stunned captain.

\- "I stumbled on it an hour ago, while looking for my tinted glasses. Nestor must have put it in my luggage. Did you know, Archibald, that this little device works on the same principle that a radio does? Currently, it can only receive, but if we were to tinker with it a bit… we could probably _transmit_ as well."

He coughed lightly, his eyes twinkling behind his round glasses.

\- "Well... We'd need for that to have in our midst someone who knew a little bit about _sound waves_…"

For a few seconds, Haddock did not react, his mouth agape and his eyes blinking stupidly. Then he jumped up with a roar and the Thom(p)sons, spooked, jumped into each other's arms, while Nestor came running, alarmed, a dripping spoonful of porridge in his hand.

\- "Billions of blue blistering barnacles, Cuthbert! You… you…! Oh! In my arms, old chap!"

The little professor, plucked from his seat, lifted in the air and kissed again on both cheeks, wriggled to be put down. Then, quite happy with himself, he hooted dreamily:

\- "Don't you think it'd be lovely if it was dear Bianca Castafiore who'd pick up our signal? It would not be the first time we'd owe our salvation to her charming help during a trip to Syldavia…"

Haddock wiped the tears blurring his eyes - tears of laughter, gratitude or tiredness, he did not quite know which one it was - and he clasped his callous hand on the scientist's frail shoulder.

\- "Oh, _she_ doesn't need a radio to be heard across the country. But… as long as it is _not_ Joylon Wagg on the other end, I think I'd be ready to hug pretty much anyone answering us, including that walking cataclysm."

* * *

_**TBC**_

* * *

**_I can't believe I made myself cry over writing the Thom(p)sons. This wasn't planned at all… They're not even my favorite characters…_**

**_Anyway. I don't know if it worked out in English, but in French, people call them "les Dupondt" – "Dupond with a D" and "Dupont with a T", as they always patiently precise when they introduce themselves – and giving them names like David and Theophile and then stripping them from these names to just leave them their initials really made it heartbreaking, like if they had started to be just one person from the moment they stepped in the dreadful barracks…_**

**_By the way, all this isn't cannon, of course. Hergé once said in an interview that these characters were plain bores, people so stupid that they don't have proper feelings. But he didn't write them like this all the time… yes, they _****are_ clumsy and not the sharpest tools on the shelf, and they do follow their orders without thinking most of the time, but they care a lot for Tintin and the gang and they show a lot of courage and dignity when they are condemn to death in San Theodoros. So, while I studied them for this story, it didn't seem wrong to imagine that _maybe_ they had turned out like this because they had been through a lot (and it wouldn't be a first in Tintin's adventures to find out that a not very reliable character isn't half bad as he seems… ^^)_**

**_Another thing that I wanted to mention is that I'm not quite sure which one is who in the English version of the comics. In French, as far as I remember, Dupont (I've made him Thomson on a whim here) is the one who chimes in all the time while Dupond (Thompson in my fic) is the one who seems to have a little more wits (Who has which shape of mustache, I don't know, though): but maybe it's the opposite for you, actually. Drats. I should have checked. It's not like it still is the war: I can probably order the English comics from somewhere, instead of just listening to the audio books from the BBC (they _****are_ great, by the way!)._**


	7. Seven

**CHAPTER 7**

* * *

Captain Haddock felt Tintin's forehead and let out a sigh of relief: the fever had finally subsided. He was about to withdraw his hand when he noticed the boy was unconsciously leaning in the comfort of his palm in his sleep and, instead of going back to ask how much progress Calculus had done with the radio, he sat down next to the makeshift bed, groaning that Earth decidedly was too low. Snowy, who was snoozing on his master's legs, lifted his head, blinked at him absently, then fell back to sleep.

The captain's hand went back to the young reporter's forehead, brushing back the sweaty ginger quiff, his calloused thumb softly rubbing the thin white scar left by the spy's bullet.

Five years already! And yet his old heart was still racing on when he thought of that dreadful night. The gunshot in the dark, Snowy howling outside, the phone call to Mr. Baxter... the appalling wait, not knowing if the lad was going to make it through... and then the three weeks spent at Tintin's bedside, patting his back when he had nausea, cringing when the pain made him whimper in his sleep, trying to distract him with old tales of the sea because reading gave him migraines and playing with Snowy tired him too much, then taking him for short walks in the green corridors of _Sprodj Atomic Research Centre_ when he got stronger, holding his arm to prevent spells of dizziness... watching his progress with anguish, reminding himself constantly that this iconoclast of Syldavian doctor knew what he was saying, that the patient _was_ very healthy and would recover without any sequelae...

_"It's a miracle. The bullet only grazed his skull." Yeah, sure. _That_ was no miracle in the captain's book. A miracle would have been for the spies to miss the target completely._

But the doctors had been right. The young reporter had indeed fully recovered and this adventure which had almost been the last had led them as far as the Moon! Thundering typhoons, when he thought about it… you had to be mad. And all because...

\- "Captain…"

He jumped, but then realized that Tintin was just muttering in his sleep. His rough hand resumed stroking gently the ginger head and he didn't even notice that he was humming an old sailor song, like his own pa' did by his bedside, a long time ago.

Oh, Tintin was _not_ his son – even if something akin to pride made his heart swell when someone made the confusion, even if he was thirty-two years older than the lad and that it _could_ have been true. Tintin was his friend, his best friend.

But Tintin was also, in many ways, just that "boy reporter" the _Petit Vingtième_ told adventures of as if he was the hero of a comics.

A young man who burst out laughing in the street without worrying about people's gaze, who liked to speed on his motorcycle and to run with his dog; a growing lad who could eat with gusto either a rata prepared in the depths of the Amazon jungle or the meal served aboard a ship rolling in a storm; a boy who could move mountains to solve a mystery but waited until the last minute to finish a paper; a kid who hugged you spontaneously when he felt happy or relieved.

Haddock suppressed a smile.

In a sense, Tintin and Snowy were quite similar: most of the time in a good mood, relentless about going out in whatever the weather, curious to the point of recklessness, incredibly _not_ resentful but stubborn as mules when they put their minds to something, independent but quick to show their affection…

-"… and rather wary of spiders", Haddock completed, stifling a laugh which, for some unknown reason, hurt just like a bundle of needles in his constricted throat.

\- "Woof", said Snowy indignantly, raising his head as if he had recognized the word hated by his master.

Tintin stirred again. His eyelashes fluttered, he mumbled something unintelligible, then his eyes opened and wandered around fuzzily before settling on the captain.

\- "Sleep well, lad?" asked the old sea dog in a tone that wanted to be light but was heavy with relief.

_Three, two, one_… cogs in slow motion were visibly re-engaging in the young reporter's head. The fever was definitely gone, leaving him with only great weariness.

\- "Not really", croaked Tintin.

Haddock took the glass of water that had been waiting on a suitcase, leaned over and supported the young man's neck while he was drinking avidly, then propped him up on the piles of blankets behind him when he struggled to sit up, wincing and breathing through his nose.

Snowy, fortunately, had somehow understood that it was not a good time to be all over the place with joy at seeing his master awake, and although his ears were perked up and that his tail beating a frantic rhythm, he did not try to jump on the reporter to lick his face, but lay down wisely against his hip.

\- "I had some nightmares, I think," Tintin said, frowning. He scratched the white and curly head of his ecstatic dog absently, as if he was still lost in his dream. "I… I dreamed I was in the professor's submarine, when these weeds got entangled in the propellers… the oxygen reserves were almost empty…"

He paused and shivered, as pale as the collar of his shirt.

_"I couldn't breathe anymore."_

The captain merely nodded.

Tintin often had nightmares, especially when he was exhausted or preoccupied by something. It was nothing abnormal, had said the doc shortly after their trip to the Moon, when Haddock had managed to set as condition that he'd go see a doctor for his heart that Tintin would also make an appointment for a complete assessment (_this umpteenth concussion in the hold of the rocket could have had really serious repercussions on someone who had undergone a serious surgical operation so little time before_). Apparently, having nightmares was even a good sign - body and mind were said to release this way the stress built up during dangerous reporting. "And you also happen to have a pretty vivid imagination, young man."

_Ha ha._

Haddock did not see anything good in the fact that someone who had not lived through the war would wake up regularly screaming at night because he thought he was trapped at the mercy of a brute strangling him / holding him at gun point/ clubbing him / drowning him / threatening him with a syringe filled with nobody knew what dangerous substance.

Tintin's brilliant mind was of no help to him when he was fighting against his memories. In his dreams, he could not escape being what everyone seemed to forget that he was: just a boy, who had seen far too much, long before becoming a man…

\- "I'm sorry I made you worry," said the reporter softly, placing his hand on the captain's clenched fist.

Haddock harrumphed.

He had long learned that it was ridiculous to pretend that only females had feelings, but the habit was hard to get through.

\- "Good for you to know what you've done wrong, landlubber. But next time you crash a plane, try to get out of it with a simple band-aid on your forehead like always", he groaned.

Snowy, far from being fooled, began to squirm happily, reassured to hear again in this gruff tone the friendly intonation of the usual banter between the two men.

\- "Blistering barnacles, what will your readers think if you start being clumsy and nonchalant like... like that _beatnik_ jellyfish they hired by mistake at that weekly magazine!" *

\- "I'll do my best, captain," said Tintin solemnly, but an amused spark was dancing in his eyes as he pushed away Snowy who wanted to lick his nose.

Haddock shook his head, huffing, then looked for his pipe, stuffed it, lit it and, after taking the first puff, grinned frankly at his friend.

\- "It's good to have you back again, lad," he said.

Tintin smiled too, that youthful smile that made the world a better place just looking at it. Then his face turned serious again, his eyes darkened, he calmed his dog with a firm pressure on the neck and, the next minute, the boy was gone, and the reporter was back.

\- "How long have I been unconscious?" he asked. "Where are we now? Are the others fine? Any news of rescue?"

Straight to the point, as usual.

Haddock sighed. He had his answers ready because he knew to the last comma what questions the young man would ask when he woke up, but he wished Tintin would not always be so quick in pushing aside his health to jump back into the adventure.

\- "We're all fine. It is now... ten in the morning", he said, looking at his watch. "It's been three days since the plane crashed. We covered about twelve kilometers north-northwest, descending towards the valley. We have not moved since we pitched the tent in the sheltered corner of this plateau. The Thompsons did a little reconnaissance and the slope then intensifies. We'd have to rope up to keep going down."

He removed his pipe from his mouth for a moment.

\- "Ha! Suffice to say it's not worth trying. Not to mention the detectives, it'd be foolish to ask _Nestor_ or even Cuthbert to go rock climbing. No, best we can do is to stay here, where a helicopter can easily land. We have food, water, blankets, we can hold on until a rescue party arrives."

\- "But then they would need to _know_ that we're here..."

With an arm still crossed over the covers, frowning, Tintin patted his lips with his finger. Haddock smiled as he put his pipe back into his mouth. Usually the familiar gesture was followed by an energetic "I think I'm beginning to understand!" but there was no need for that today.

\- "Cuthbert is on the case," said the captain, delighted to be the one bringing the good news. "He found a way of tampering with his hearing aid to turn it into a radio."

For a few moments, Tintin stared at him in a daze, then his face lit up.

\- "But _of course_!" he cried. "Oh, how did I not think about it earlier?"

The old sea dog rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to blow a puff of smoke in the young reporter's face.

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

Five hours later, Tintin was able to get up, though still wincing and cradling his ribs. Revived by a dreamless nap and Nestor's _bons petits plats_ – another miracle, considering the circumstances – he insisted on sitting next to Calculus while the old man worked on the makeshift radio.

Haddock and the Thompsons made a round trip to the plane to bring back pieces of equipment the reporter and the professor needed for the repairs: the pilot's helmet and microphone, various parts of the dashboard, tangled wires, screwdrivers, etc., as well as a haul of other more prosaic things (cans, additional blankets, a feather pillow, slippers, a toiletry kit...) which Nestor had made a list of too, as if they were going to stop by the grocery store on their way back from a stroll in the countryside.

In the evening, as thick clouds were gathering over the darkened mountains, boding a change in the weather which would not be to the advantage of the shipwrecked, Calculus finally announced that the apparatus was ready.

Everyone leaned closer when they first tried to see if they could pick up something.

The radio – or more precisely the jumble of wires and bits and pieces they had assembled – crackled, hissed, then finally the indistinct sizzle turned into something clear. It was one of the last trendy French songs.

\- "... _les vacances sont terminées, sous prétexte que l'on est rentré, pourquoi faudrait-il tout changer ? _…" **

The captain snorted loudly.

\- "These modern singers know nothing else than whining "yeah, yeah" nowadays", he grumbled. "Thundering typhoons! In my time..."

\- "I danced on that song with Martine", said Tintin thoughtfully. "Last summer, actually."

There was a moment of stunned silence that he did not notice, busy tampering with the switches, orienting the antennas differently and calling from time to time: "_Allo? Allo?_".

The Thompsons came closer not very inconspicuously, taking their notepads out of their pockets, while Haddock cleared his throat and tried to sound indifferent.

\- "Martine? Which _Martine_?" he asked.

Then his eyes widened upon realizing that she must have been the girl with the butterfly glasses and the ponytail who had jumped on Tintin as soon as they had gotten off the plane when returning from Ischia. Thundering typhoons! She seemed nice enough but she had been wearing _trousers_!

\- "The secretary of the art gallery? Martine Vande-something?"

The detectives hastily scrawled the name in their notepads.

\- "Martine Vandezande," Tintin corrected absently. "She invited me and I said yes. T'was the least I could do. I made her cry when I accused her wrongly of murdering of her boss."

He still felt mortified at the memory.

\- "So you two went out for a dance," repeated the captain slowly. "And?"

The Thompsons were holding their breath, pencils hovering in the air. Nestor was strangely silent in his kitchen area. Calculus was the only one... _ah, well, no, actually_. Even good old Calculus was listening, his ear-trumpet set and ready, his head cocked to the side and looking extremely interested.

\- "And _nothing_", said Tintin with a shrug. "I trod on her feet all night long. Apparently I'm no good at dancing the twist. I should stick to the _Bloushtika_."

\- "The _Bloushtika_!" repeated a rocky voice on the radio. "Dhe nazional dance of our Syldavian neighborrrrs. By dhe vhiskers of Kûrrrvi-Tasch's! It vill not be said that dhese little sheep vill always frrrrolick underrr dhe noze of dheir masterrrrs. To vhom do I have dhe honorrrr to speak, may I ask?"

* * *

**_TBC_**

* * *

*** He's talking about Gaston Lagaffe (another Belgian comics' character, if you've never heard of him) who wandered into the offices of _Tintin_'s rival magazine, the _Journal de Spirou,_ in 1959. Nobody knew who had hired him… and to this day, they still haven't been able to kick him out!**

**** Johnny Halliday, _Comme l'été dernier_ (1962).**


	8. Eight

**CHAPTER 8**

_** "In which little girls don't need to ask for snowmen to be built."**_

* * *

The captain's laughter got stuck in his throat. The Thompsons dropped their notebooks and gaped like two caught fish. Nestor tiptoed back to the others, a frightened look painted on his horsey face. Calculus frowned, pressing the acoustic horn closer to his ear.

\- "Who are you?" Tintin asked instead of answering the question, picking up the pencil of one of the Thompsons to jot down the frequency they had picked up.

\- "Oh oh! My young vriend, anonymity may vell be customarry between rrradio amateurrrs, but vhen you sneak up on the frrrequenzy uzed by the grrreat arrrmy of Borrrduria, you have to identify yourzelf at the firrrst varrrning!"

Tintin quickly switched off the device.

\- "Now we're in fine sheets," said the captain in a blanch voice. "If these hairy Zapotecs can figure that _we_ are in distress in the middle of Whiskers Motherland... they will want to settle old scores..."

\- "The captain's right," chimed in Calculus in his high-pitch voice. "They did not appreciate to see us run off with that tank last time. And I, for one, do not want to go back to this insanitary fortress to be forced to work for the account of powers flouting the sacred rights of mankind!"

\- "It has to be a border post," said the young reporter, his eyes dark. He unfolded the map and spread it out on the table. "Lake Flechizaff is cut in half between the two countries, we must have crashed on the wrong bank."

\- "The wrong mountain, you mean," Thompson corrected.

\- "To be precise, on the ... on the wrong... well, on the wrong _side_", stammered Thomson.

Nestor raised the lantern, his cheeks trembling like jelly.

\- "Oh, Monsieur… what will happen to us?"

\- "I don't think this man knew who he was talking to," said Tintin. "He must have thought we were radio amateurs from Syldavia or Hungary."

\- "A pretty good indication of the fact we're neither Syldavian nor Hungarian would be that we had this conversation in _French_", chirped in Calculus.

\- "And do you think the Bordurians so daft that they cannot make a link between a plane which disappeared with you on board and a pirate radio station suddenly starting broadcasting in the middle of the Zymylpathian Mountains?" Haddock boomed.

\- "We won't be able to ask for help if they start tracking us on the waves," said Thompson with concern.

\- "To be precise, we won't be able to wave if they start to track us for help", stammered Thomson.

\- "Waves that I would refuse to give them the secret of, whatever they would do to me!" assured Calculus forcefully. "I once destroyed my works to make sure such people would not put their hands on it, and I would do it again if needed. My invention will not serve their dark schemes!"

\- "Gentlemen, gentlemen ... my friends, calm down", Tintin intervened. "Nothing is lost yet. We can transmit on other frequencies, try reaching this French-speaking station we got a little earlier, maybe pick up a Syldavian border post another time. We _will_ make it out of here."

The wind was rising, and it howled dramatically on point.

During the hours that followed, Tintin kept trying to send a SOS, hoping to catch on a friendly amateur or the Syldavian police, but in between variety shows or the latest news from Prague, he kept on falling back to the creepy gravelly voice.

The Bordurians were watching them. The Bordurians had clearly guessed _who_ was shipwrecked in their mountains. The Bordurians were delighted to have them at their mercy and were playing with them like a cat watching a mouse.

\- "The Bordurians will probably dispatch an expedition to come get us tomorrow morning," said the young reporter grimly, when he gathered everyone around the table again a few hours after midnight.

Outside, the storm was getting stronger, rumbling and shaking the tent like an angry dog would do with a rag (Snowy did not appreciate the comparison – stuffed under a pile of blankets, he was whimpering plaintively). The cold was getting more bitter and even the lantern could no longer drive out the darkness which seemed thicker and all the more threatening.

The captain, furious, was pacing back and forth, smoking pipe after pipe. The Thompsons were shivering in their pajamas, huddled together. Under his nightcap, Nestor alternately whitened or blushed at the howling of the wind and the gusts that were shaking the canvas. Calculus had not gone to bed. His teeth were chattering despite the triple layer of clothing that he had been forced to put on, but his eyes were very sharp behind his round glasses.

\- "If the wind wasn't blowing so hard, they'd already be on their way, wouldn't they?" he asked quietly.

Tintin nodded.

\- "Indeed, professor. Out of bad comes good. But the storm will not always protect us and it will end up turning against us. We have to take a decision."

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist in a childlike movement, stifling a moan as he changed position, an arm cradling protectively his chest… and they all had an aborted gesture, a word swallowed up, an expression both guilty and filled with pity: none of them had had the courage to send him to bed during the long hours he had spent bending over the radio, calling tirelessly, frowning and scribbling on the papers scattered around him.

They knew they needed him. The young reporter was going to find a way out of this mess. He _always_ found a way out.

\- "What are you thinking of, lad? What other options do we have except for staying here and waiting for them to pluck us up like snow-covered daisies?"

Tintin looked up and his gaze enveloped compassionately each of his companions.

\- "We must leave the plateau and try to get to Syldavia before they catch up with us", he then said decisively.

He spread the map again on the table, borrowed a half-empty tin cup, a screwdriver, the jar of sugar and the box of matches, arranged them as he talked.

\- "_This_ is the place where I think we crashed. The Bordurian border post that received our distress calls is probably _here_. We were flying over the lake when the pilot jumped off the plane. The last readings recorded by the on-board devices made me think that we were ... _there_. But the storm must have distorted them. We would not be able to catch on the Prague broadcasts if that were the case, this summit would block them. _Here_ is the steep path the Thompsons explored, the one we followed at the start. If we try to go down on _this side_ instead ..."

He tapped the chewed end of his pencil on the map.

\- "We won't risk running into the "rescue party" sent by the Bordurians and we will be at the border in less than two days."

The Thompsons, relieved, hugged effusively and slapped each other on the shoulder in congratulation. Nestor, reassured, lay down on his makeshift bed with dignity, mentally drawing up a list of the things he would need to feed everyone during the rest of the journey. Calculus was still leaning over the map, wiping his glasses thoughtfully, his nearsighted eyes narrowing as he pondered over what he had heard.

The captain startled them all when he slammed his hands on the table and Snowy, who had been snoozing against his master's knee, jumped and began to bark, worried.

\- "This is all very nice, but you forgot several things!" Haddock roared. "First, there's a dratted _blizzard_ raging outside. The Bordurians can't move, yes, but neither can we!"

\- "Stay, Snowy," said Tintin, taking the dog Thomson had picked up and was holding out to him. "That's it, you're a good doggie. Go to bed, we're talking."

\- "_Second_", bellowed Haddock, "we did not initially take the path you now want to send us on because _you_ said there were – and I'm quoting you here – "chances it was impractical"! _Third_..."

The captain stopped and breathed loudly through his nose. His weathered features softened under his thick black beard.

\- "_Third_, you're in no condition to do such a forced march, Tintin. You can barely stand and if you were to fall, one of your broken ribs could very well puncture your lungs. As for picturing a crew like this one covering the good forty kilometers separating us from the border in two days… you must be insane. Two days? Blistering barnacles, let me laugh! Make it four or five!"

But he wasn't laughing at all. Rather, his eyes were blazing fiercely.

\- "And I don't know what kind of stupid ideas are boiling under this thick skull of yours, lad, but put yourself in the noggin, there's _no way_ we'd leave you behind. We'll all be saved, or we will perish together."

A concert of stunned exclamations immediately followed by indignant protests erupted, again frightening the dog. Tintin calmed the effervescence with a smile and a pat on Snowy's curly neck.

\- "I think you're underestimating our friends, Captain," he said gently. "We made it as far as a dozen kilometers on our first day. Even if this path turned out to be cluttered with fallen trees and tangled bushes – which I doubt, as these are mountain pastures according to the map – I'm sure we can cover roughly the same distance at the same rate going down to the valley. Besides, I'm hopeful that some shepherd or radio enthusiast on a holiday by the lake will eventually hear our cry for help."

He put his hand on the arm of the captain who was still fuming and looked up.

\- "Everything will be fine, I promise."

_Oh, that gaze, that gaze!_ Haddock knew it only too well. How many times had he allowed himself to be convinced and carried away by those eyes which combined the most implacable determination with the sincerest courage? He no longer counted these times and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would bite his fingers, that he would swear for the umpteenth time he would not be smitten into adventure again, that he would grumble, beg , scold… but that he would give in and follow Tintin through whatever would come their way.

And some day, it would inevitably end up badly. But although he was a bit mortified at the idea of always yielding to this kid like a compass inescapably seeking North, the old sailor could not help following his instinct.

_It was in these eyes, too, that he had first seen he could be something else than only a wreck – it was this smiling and compassionate gaze that had put him back afloat._

He sighed deeply.

\- "Very well. We'll do as you suggest. But go take a nap, will you, lad? It may be the last shred of rest we'll be able to get before these pirates start chasing after us."

Tintin nodded wearily. He accepted the captain's help without protest and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, Snowy huddled against him.

Haddock pulled the blanket up on the young man's shoulder, reached out as if to feel Tintin's forehead for fever or to gently muss up the ginger hair, but changed his mind afterwards, looking somber. He simply patted the dog's head, glanced at Nestor who was muttering shopping lists in his slumber, shared a look with Thompson who was watching over Thomson's sleep, then got up tiredly and returned to the table.

The professor, who was still there and had observed him, said nothing. But once the sailor was seated, he propped his bald head on the captain's shoulder with the same familiarity as Marlinspike Hall's Siamese cat and yawned widely.

\- "Go to bed, Cuthbert," Haddock muttered. He stuffed his pipe. "I know you're used to staying up late in your lab, but now isn't the time to be zealous."

\- "I agree, Nestor did have a heavy hand with the salt in the spinach…" stammered Calculus, curling up more comfortably and wrapping his skinny limbs around the captain's arm.

\- "Let go of me, you four-eyes octopus, I'm no ship's keel!" Haddock protested, but it was too late: the professor was already dozing off, the frizzy black hair on each side of his skull tickling the sailor's chin.

The captain heaved another sigh. He lit his pipe, groaning because he was bothered by the weight on his arm, took a puff or two, internally lamenting that he only had a bottle of whiskey left, then went back to studying the map, frowning.

He had no idea who the Bordurian who had first answer them was, but he found it hard to believe he was just a soldier. There was something vicious in the man's snigger, like the evil joy of someone rejoicing at seeing the hour of his vengeance finally coming up.

_Krônick or Klûmsi, the secret agents Tintin and him had made drink to oblivion and locked in their rooms at Hotel Sznôrr? It must have been a dreadful wake-up call for them when they had realized their charge had run away. Perhaps they were impatiently waiting for their turn to laugh at the expense of those who had made fun of them ... _

_Major Kardouk, who had let escape from Bakhine Fortress not only Calculus but also Public Enemy Number One and Two after having them at his mercy for several hours? If he had not been executed since, he must have held some pretty big griefs against them – and he was not known for a patient and gentle man when he was ruling the prison ..._

_Kavitch, the secretary who had confirmed that the imposters' papers were correct, ridiculing his master? He was no strong character at the time, but people changed in five years and some more cowardly than him had turned out to be the worst collaborators during the war..._

_… Colonel Sponsz himself? They had not heard from him in two years. Maybe __Kûrrrvi-Tasch__ had had enough of his multiple blunders and had relegated him to a border post…_

Haddock shuddered. He did not want to face that old scoundrel again at all. Sponsz had probably not yet digested San Theodoros' failure and he certainly had had to pay a high price for it when he had returned home. Oh, what he would put them through if he found them at his mercy…

\- "If they catch up with us before we cross the border… we'll be in for a rough time," said Thompson, coming to sit opposite the captain.

He massaged the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyelids weighed down by the lack of sleep, sniffed under his mustache.

\- "Everything will be alright," groaned the captain with a shrug, but his eyes couldn't help glancing at Tintin's sleeping form in the darkness, in both faith and despaired resolve.

Thompson smiled sadly.

\- "Everything will be alright", he repeated in a low voice, as if the small banal phrase had a mystical power, as if repeating it tirelessly could actually change things for the better.

_Everything will be alright._

_Everything will be alright._

_Everything will be alright._

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

Everything was going wrong.

You couldn't see further than ten steps away. They might have been heading straight for the lion's den at this rate. The Bordurians, if they had been more sensible than them and had not yet left their base, would only have to collect a bunch of snowmen when the blizzard stopped.

Calculus had turned icy blue. Nestor was claiming that he had broken a tooth with all this chattering and was beginning to speak of a raise of wages, a very bad sign for a man who was usually so delicate when mentioning his salary that you almost needed an interpreter to get the point. Strangely, the Thompsons were holding on pretty well, but the captain was contemplating giving Snowy a swig of his spare cognac: the dog was shivering miserably in Cuthbert's coat: they had thought that sticking these two together would keep them both warm, but obviously it wasn't working.

Haddock himself could feel all his joints creaking painfully and he wondered by what miracle he had survived in Tibet three years ago. His toes and fingers had lost all sensation, his face was red and itchy from being slapped by the wind, his heart was pumping everything it could but never seemed to have enough oxygen and the familiar burn was spreading in his chest. The sweat dripping down his back and soaking his undershirt was as much due to the efforts he had to do to clear the way in the snow while carrying the heaviest of bags as to the diffuse anxiety that was filling him when thinking back on Dr. Leech's warnings.

_"You have to put an end to the adventures, Captain, or they will be _your_ end. It is not a few pills and a happy decrease in your alcohol consumption over the past few months that will make your organs twenty years old again. The Moon was a severe wake-up call. You didn't want to take it into account, but I'm telling you that one day your heart will declare: "_niet_, _nada_, the end, _fini tout ça_" and instead of coming back to Marlinspike Hall with fanfares after having saving the world with Tintin, you'll be carried home feet first. "_

Dr. Leech had an unfortunate tendency to abuse of dramatic diagnoses and drastic measures and Haddock, most of the time, only listened to him with one ear.

But he had to give to the man that, while on this mountain beaten by gusts of icy wind, as he sank to his thighs in the snow with a one-ton bag heavy on his kidneys and the agonizing responsibility of bringing back home their little family unharmed... suddenly the words of the old doctor took on a whole new meaning.

The captain stopped and brushed off the snow clinging to his beard and his eyebrows. He pushed his cap up slightly on his sweaty forehead and turned around for the umpteenth time to see how the others were doing. _One… two, three… four… five_. They were still behind him, progressing painfully along the slope, silhouettes barely visible through the blizzard.

He narrowed his eyes, tried to make out what was in front of him, carefully testing the ground with his cane. The black and jagged mountainside that bordered the slope was taking a turn and the greyish fog in which the flakes swirled like a swarm of rabid wasps was probably hiding a cliff. But there ... _on the right ... It looked like_ ... _yes_, _there_ was _a cave_.

Haddock turned and waved at his companions.

\- "A cave!" he blurted. "There's a cave, we'll be able to take shelter and rest for a while!"

At least, if he was not unlucky as usual and it was not inhabited by a bear...

_Well, he was so cold that he was ready to face the yeti if necessary._

His flashlight scanned the wonderfully dry gray walls of a spacious cave and he heaved a grateful sigh. The place was empty and there were no bone debris like Snowy would certainly have been delighted to find.

Behind him, the Thompsons stumbled in, followed by Nestor.

\- "_Merci mon Dieu_ _!_" cried the butler, dropping to his knees.

\- "T-t-to b-b-be p-p-precise..." Thomson began, nervously chortling.

\- "Phew", concluded Thompson.

Haddock returned to the entrance of the cave and anxiously tried to make sense of the blurry white slope. _What were the other two doing? They had been right behind, they ..._

He gasped when Tintin, painted in snow, suddenly appeared in front of him, an arm wrapped around the shoulders of Calculus who looked like a stick of ice-cream like the ones sold to children during Marlinspike funfair.

\- "He's not doing good! We need to rub him down," gasped the young reporter. "I have a bottle of cognac in…"

\- "I have one too – and full, if you want to know! Save yours for the next time you want to manipulate me into following you in another of your follies", Haddock grumbled, hurriedly undoing the straps from his own bag.

He grabbed the professor and carried him to the back of the cave where Nestor, quaking from head to toes, was trying to light the stove. Tintin followed him, an arm tightly cradling his chest, trying to suppress the cough viciously echoing in his ribs. He let himself slide against one of the walls, breathless, refusing with a gesture the gourd Thompson was holding out to him, his eyes fixed on Calculus.

Snowy, who had pulled himself out of the green coat of the professor, crawled to his master, squeaking weakly, and shoved his head under the blue anorak, pushing the radio device which made a bump in the young reporter's front pocket. Tintin stroked the dog, finding unconscious comfort in slipping his frozen fingers in the warm curly fur and feeling the rapid beat of the little heart of his faithful companion.

\- "Oh Monsieur... may Monsieur le Professeur be all right..." was blubbering Nestor, as he counted wrong the number of spoons of coffee and milk powder.

Thomson, the little hair on his round bald head still damp and twisting in all directions, was also muttering prayers.

Haddock, meanwhile, had undressed the small old man and was vigorously rubbing his skinny limbs, his caving chest, his bony back. When the scientist's skin turned red as if he had been scrubbed like a ship deck, he was dressed in a jiffy and they poured in his throat a good swig of cognac which made him gasp, spit and finally opened unfocused eyes.

\- "Ca-ca-captain!" he protested weakly. "D-d-don't t-t-take ad-d-dvantage of my weakness t-t-to get revenge f-f-from your cu-cu-cure by t-t-turning me into a-a-a alcoholic..."

There was a weak burst of collective laughter that ended in a general fit of coughing then Nestor, who had regained some of his professional dignity now that he was no longer shaking, offered a round of coffee.

Haddock's legs had turned into jelly from relief and he had to fight against the torpor invading him once the heat of the burning liquid spread throughout his tired body. He forced himself to get up, shook his companions, had them set up a semblance of camp.

The tent was pitched partially, blocking the entrance to the cave and protecting them from the blizzard. The Thompsons prepared the makeshift beds, Calculus stayed obediently in the folding chair with Snowy posing as a hot water bottle on his knees and Nestor set the tiny table while the captain studied the map with Tintin.

Or at least _claimed_ he was. His eyes were drooping every two minutes and the young reporter was no better than him: Tintin was terribly pale, with the exception of two red spots blossoming on his cheekbones whenever he coughed. He was wheezing again, but his eyes were still bright with determination.

\- "We must be _here_," he said hoarsely. "We made quite good progress, considering our conditions. Tomorrow, we should reach the canopy of trees in this forest. Even if the weather clears up and the Bordurians fly a helicopter, we should be able to avoid them."

\- "Hmm," Haddock muttered, not realizing that he was drooling a bit in the hand that held up his chin.

\- "Go to sleep", said Tintin with a smile. "You deserve it."

Another coughing fit shook him and he moaned involuntarily as he curled protectively over his injured ribs. When he straightened up, out of breath, features tense with pain, a perfectly awakened captain was staring at him in anguish.

\- "I'm fine", promised the young reporter, swallowing back his saliva and trying to ignore the copper taste filling his mouth.

_Everything will be alright._

_Everything will be alright._

_Everything will be alright._

Haddock hesitated. He was about to say something when the radio crackled, suddenly turning on by itself.

\- "Tintin! Tintin? Are you listening? Tintin? Do you copy?" called a youthful voice through the sizzle.

\- "Tintin! Captain Haddock! Snowy! Can you hear us? Are you alright?" added another voice, musical and yet full of worry.

\- "Tintin, if you're alive, please answer us! It's Niko and Nouchka!"

* * *

**_TBC_**

* * *

**_I'm soooo sorry for the delay... I'll quickly update this story, as soon as I finish to translate it (it's complete on the French side ^^ so no worry, you'll get the end proper and nice!.. and you'll probably hate me too.)_**


	9. Nine

**CHAPTER 9**

**_"In which the length of miles isn't always the same."_****_  
_**

* * *

In other circumstances, Tintin would have cheered loudly, jumped on his feet and waltzed with Calculus or Nestor to celebrate such good news.

But in this case, only a sharp clenching of his fingers on the captain's sleeve betrayed the violent emotion that was overwhelming him. Haddock's throat was clogged too. He couldn't say a word either and just put his hand on the reporter's and tapped it once or twice.

_Saved. We're saved._

The radio sizzled and sputtered. Snowy got up, waving his tail at top speed, and barked happily, recognizing the voice of their young friends.

Tintin hastily grabbed the microphone.

\- "Niko! Niko, it's me! We're alive! Where are you, children?"

\- "Oh, Tintin, we were so worried!" cried Nouchka's pretty voice.

\- "Tintin, how far from the border are you?" asked her brother determinedly. "Can you go down to the valley, to Lake Flechizaff? Are any of you wounded? There're several of us, here, mountaineers and villagers who gathered to go help you when a shepherd reported a plane crashing on the southern slope of Mount Zstopnohle. But the Bordurians keep claiming it is fake news and that the Syldavians only want to invade."

\- "The Bordurians got our SOS, but we have reason to think it'd be better if they did not find us", explained the reporter. "A blizzard has forced us to take shelter in a cave for the time being. We'll be back on the road as soon as possible. We should reach the lake by tomorrow evening."

The captain grunted, as if he found the estimate time of arrival a little too optimistic, but Tintin deliberately ignored it.

\- "We won't be able to enter Borduria's territorial waters, said Niko after a short moment of swishing silence, as if he was consulting someone next to him. "But if you can borrow a fishing boat in the village of Röttevis and reach _the Trident_, you know, these rocks where the submarine had run aground, we'll come get you with a speedboat."

Tintin wanted to keep talking, to tell Niko of the fond memories the children's voices had brought back to him ; he also wanted to study the map a bit more, but a wave of fatigue crashed on his shoulders, making him dizzy. He leaned his heavy neck against the wall behind him, closed his eyes for a moment and immediately sank into a thick torpor, too exhausted to be embarrassed by the dull pain of his broken ribs, the chills running through him, the nausea at the bottom of his stomach or the cold nibbling his legs. The microphone slipped out of his hand and he didn't feel Snowy patting his knee with his paw and whimpering softly before slumping against him, his snout on his master's thigh.

Haddock stood up painfully. He took a few steps into the cave, which was only lit by the hurricane lamp placed on the small table, checked that the others were all lying and warmly tucked in, then came back and crouched with a groan to drape a blanket over the reporter. He gently scratched the head of the yawning dog, then straightened up and, for a short moment, saw stars.

His hand clenched on the left pocket of his jacket. He staggered, blinked, struggled against the sudden sharp pain clawing into his chest. Then, ears buzzing, gasping for breath, he finally regained control and realized that he was on his knees, forehead flooded with sweat.

\- "Thund-d-dering T-t-typhoons," he gasped, furious and terrified at the same time.

Someone grabbed his armpits and hoisted him up. He mumbled "thank you", then jumped when a hand opened in front of him, offering him the tablets he had casually thrown into a drawer after his last meeting with Doctor Leech.

The captain looked up and smiled sheepishly when he saw Nestor's horsey face, frozen in an air of high disapproval.

\- "May Monsieur forgive me, but I have taken the liberty of packing the medicines Monsieur is supposed to take regularly."

Haddock cleared his throat, embarrassed.

\- "Thank you, old chap."

\- "If Monsieur would not mind watching over his health, Monsieur Tintin, Monsieur the Professor and I would have much less worries about Monsieur," added the butler in a pinched tone. "If I may say, Monsieur is no longer very young. These adventures are not ..."

\- "Good night, Nestor," interrupted the captain, rolling his eyes.

But when he tried to step away, his legs betrayed him and he found himself sagging in the old servant's arms again. Nestor tisked, but he helped his master settle down for the night before going back to bed.

The radio crackled in the silence. Snowy's ears twitched, but he didn't go sniff the device that was coming to life on its own.

Outside, the wind had dropped, and the snow looked bluish in the dark. It turned pink when dawn started lining the black ridges, then gold when it was basked in the sun. It was sparkling, powdering the silky white robe of the mountain with glitter under the great blue sky when the castaways finally emerged from the cave.

\- "A wonderful day to travel!" chirped Calculus, whose glasses were the only thing you could make out from the muffler they had wrapped him in.

With his green coat buttoned to the last button he looked like a fir tree mounted on two slender stalks, with a huge hedgehog on its back (_Tintin's backpack, lightened as much as possible but filled with necessary things: the professor's suitcase had been abandoned in the cave_). A star was missing at the top of this human Christmas tree, but the swinging pendulum, out as usual, could easily make up for other missing ornaments.

Nestor looked as gloomy as Uncle Scrooge, right next to him, in black from top hat to rain boots (_which he wore with three pairs of socks_) with his long, pale face and his bag hanging from his bony shoulder blades. Thomson had put his gloves inside out and Thompson was making a drama out of his bowler hat on which someone had sat. Their two cardboard suitcases, warped by humidity, were patched up and tied with roast twine (_they had categorically refused to part with them and there were no backpacks to replace them anyway_). The captain had his yellow scarf tied around his head in a kerchief, and was wearing his cap over it. His Tibetan knapsack on his back, he was lighting his pipe with the tranquility of a hardened mountain dweller.

Snowy came back to them, shaking his short curly hair in a cloud of snow, his stubby tail beating a delighted rhythm: he was bringing back Calculus' umbrella, lost in the blizzard the day before. Tintin returned it to the professor, then he smiled at his companions.

\- "Let's go, gentlemen," he said. "Courage, this is the final stretch. Tonight, we shall sleep at Villa Sprok and our holidays will finally begin."

\- "Not too soon," Haddock scoffed.

But he grinned back and followed in the footsteps of his young friend, launching with him into a lively discussion as if they were just going for a walk in Marlinspike's woods, his morale raised by the superb weather and his forces suddenly renewed at the prospect of dipping his old carcass in a hot bath by the evening and sipping a glass of whiskey before slipping into a good bed.

_Allons_, there were only about twenty kilometers left – thirty less than the endless night to return to Wadesdah after their plane had crashed in Khemed. It would over in a tick.

* * *

_– Seven long hours later – _

* * *

The captain dropped heavily on the hard, icy ground covered with a thick layer of pine needles. He leaned against the tree, closing his eyes. His features were drawn by exhaustion.

\- "Let's take a break," he wheezed hoarsely.

His calves were trembling, his back was laced with throbbing pain and he didn't even want to think about his poor feet in these shoes which were not suitable for such a hike.

In the purple glow of twilight, Nestor had fallen to his knees at the mere mention of a possible break. His face was pasty and as marked as at the end of Abdallah's stay at the castle. Calculus, sprawled on the ground with his legs apart, was breathing in jerks like an asthmatic bird, his nearsighted eyes half closed. The Thompsons who hadn't said a word for hours, staggering and holding on to each other, had also collapsed, back to back, and did not even have the strength to mop their perspiring foreheads. Snowy himself had flopped on the ground, panting loudly.

\- "Come on, my friends, get up", begged Tintin, running a weary hand through his hair, which briefly put back in place his famous quiff, currently pitifully slumped to the side. "We're almost there. If we make just one final effort, we'll be at the lake at the right time to" borrow "a boat while these good people will be having supper and we won't have to use our torches to go through the woods."

The two red spots were back on his cheeks, he was wheezing, an icy sweat was shining on his forehead, but he hadn't sat down. Stiffened so as not to force an abrupt movement on his ribs, he went from one to the other to encourage them to get up, coughing from time to time in the crook of his elbow.

But no one moved.

Tintin came back to Haddock and briefly squeezed his shoulder.

\- "Please, captain. Get up."

\- "Give us a minute, lad," muttered the old sailor. "We're exhausted. Five days since this little jig started and there's no deluding us, we're at the end of the rope! Nestor and Calculus are not used to such trials. The Thompsons are brave, but they won't last much longer. _You_ are running a fever and only standing by sheer will. Do you think I can't see it? Gobbledygook, Tintin, I'm not blind. Chang looked better than you when we were bringing him back from _Yack's Snout_. As for me ... "

He didn't finish his sentence, because the last thing the young reporter needed was to add to his burden the fear that the old worn-out heart of his best friend would suddenly declare forfeit.

\- "Let us take a break, son," he said with effort. "Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour at least. "The Bordurians haven't shown up, they're probably looking for us on the other side of the mountain. We're safe here."

Tintin shook his head.

\- "I don't believe so, Captain. They could show up with a helicopter anytime soon and the canopy of trees will no longer protect us when we'll get closer to the lake. Not to mention that if they set dogs after us ... I'll believe we're out of the woods when we'll all be safe on the Syldavian shore. Come on, Captain. Please. Stand up and they will follow you."

He rummaged in Calculus' bag. The professor didn't notice it at all: his head was tilted back and he was dozing with his mouth ajar, his glasses crooked on his face.

\- "Here, maybe I still have a bottle of..."

The captain chuckled.

\- "It's old hat, lad. And I reckon you decided to gang up with Cuthbert to get me back on a mineral water diet no later than last week."

Tintin pouted sheepishly – he had indeed been caught asking the professor if his next version of the anti-alcohol pills would this time have a definitive effect.

Haddock smiled despite his exhaustion and his hand reached out to muss up the boy's hair before he changed his mind: now was not the time to soften up. It would only worry the reporter who knew very well that the captain only was sentimental when something weighed on him. Tintin was far from being stupid and unobservant. It was only because he was intensely focused on bringing them home that he hadn't noticed anything yet, but in other times it would have been close to impossible to hide from him…

\- "It's your heart, isn't it? Do you want me to get your medicine? Nestor must have packed it... Hold on, Captain. Please, hold on."

Haddock froze. Tintin had grabbed his hand and was clutching it almost convulsively. The freckles on his pale face were even more marked on his fever-flushed face. His jaws clenched fiercely as if to contain the emotion his suddenly too bright eyes were betraying, he murmured:

\- "I know it's very selfish of me, but I beg you ... don't let me down, Captain. One more effort, we're almost there. Then you can rest as long as you wish..."

His voice croaked, he quickly ran the back of his wrist over his face and Haddock realized that the young reporter _knew_, that he was preparing for the worst – and he was suddenly filled with the intense desire of strangling Dr. Leech, this unbearable fat slubberdegullion of a doctor who threw professional secrecy to the dustbin whenever he met a recalcitrant patient.

Filled with holy indignation, he got up quickly.

\- "I'm not on the keel yet!" he protested. "I'm going to show you that a man my age still has a lot to spare. Come on, mates! To battle stations, all hands on deck!"

And while speaking, he hoisted the professor on trembling legs, shook the dazed Thompsons, gave a big slap on the back of Nestor who almost fell and glared reproachfully at his master.

\- "Now is not the time to falter, mates!" continued the captain. "We're almost there! Let's not have these Bordurian filibusters pass us downwind. Helm to starboard and set course to Lake Flechizaff!"

He came back to Tintin, threw his arm on the boy's shoulders. The gesture and the grandiloquent reel coming with it could have seem ridiculous to anyone else, but the reporter perfectly understood the message behind the rough hug.

_"You're not getting rid of me anytime soon, landlubber._

_I'm here, Tintin. Don't be afraid, son."_

The young man swallowed hard. Grateful, he took advantage of the others picking up their things to regain control of his emotions, then looked up at the captain.

\- "The map would suggest we rather go to _port_, if we don't want to make a detour by Szohôd", he said mischievously.

Haddock stepped aside and pulled on his black beard to make it look pointy, in a supremely patient manner.

\- "Oh _really_?" he said politely, with a toothy smile that perfectly complemented his imitation of Red Rackham – or was it another pirate? "Well, bring the sail, Mister Smee. And if we come across this crocodile of Sponsz on the way, remind me to put you on the board."

Everyone laughed and the captain, satisfied, enveloped his crew with a gaze filled with gruff affection.

\- "Let's go, Snowy," called Tintin cheerfully.

But the dog, who was staring at something in the twilight-blushed woods, growled low instead of coming to him.

* * *

**_TBC_**


	10. Ten

**CHAPTER 10**

**_"In which nothing beats a captain on deck."_**

* * *

Tintin motioned for the others to be silent and to crouch down. He pulled Snowy to him, put a hand on his neck to soothe the dog and parted the branches to see what had set his faithful companion on alert.

In the frozen forest, the black and skeletal trees soared like shadows in a puppet show against the crimson twilight sky. Dark figures were waving at each other in between them in the distance: green uniforms, guns flashing briefly, dogs pulling on their leashes.

\- "Thundering Typhoons! The Bordurians!" gasped the captain who had come to lean over the reporter's shoulder.

Behind them, the Thompsons stifled a dramatic squeal. Frowning, Calculus was overturning all his pockets in search of his acoustic horn… which Nestor was holding out to him, imperturbable.

Tintin quickly rummaged in Haddock's knapsack.

\- "Come on, let's go," he whispered, pushing his companions through the thickets in the general direction they had followed so far. "We can still reach the lake in time."

He paused just for a moment and Snowy snorted indignantly before running ahead of them. Haddock turned to wait for the young reporter and couldn't help but smile when he realized Tintin was peppering their trail. Ah, what a good idea it had been to take Nestor with them on these holidays! Other than Oliveira Da Figueira, the captain couldn't think of anyone else who might have had so many unexpected and oddly useful things in their luggage.

Tintin caught up with him and urged him to move forward. They hurried through the forest, trying to be as discreet as possible. The night was gradually swallowing the bushes, the trees, the ruts. With just the pale moon as light, they were stumbling over roots, scratched by brambles, slipping on patches of hard snow, bumping into stumps. They crossed a stream which water was so cold they almost let out a cry when it submerged their ankles, and had to help each other up a muddy embankment, before they stopped again to listen to their pursuers.

A ghostly fog was now rising from the frozen black earth. The barking of the dogs and the hoarse shouts of the Bordurians seemed sometimes far away and sometimes too close.

The infernal race resumed. Their hearts were pounding in their chests, adrenaline was lashing their exhausted bodies, making them forget for a moment their side stitches, their quivering legs, their scrapes and bruises.

The captain was leading the way, arms crossed in front of his face to protect himself from the branches, rushing on like a bulldozer. Nestor was following close, supporting Calculus whose scrawny legs were knitting as fast as he could. The Thompsons, distraught and sweating, came next. Tintin was watching their rear and occasionally helping the policemen out of a rabbit hole (they seemed to set foot in every single burrow in the forest).

Finally, they emerged into a fallow field on the edge of the woods and, through the blue mist, they made out the buildings of a farm.

\- "Quick!" panted Tintin. "The dogs will have a hard time finding our trail in other animal scents."

The others nodded, out of breath. They made their way to a vegetable garden, scrambled over a low wall made of old stones and hid just in time under an awning protecting a pile of wood.

Snowy growled again. Tintin closed a hand on his muzzle to calm him down.

The soldiers, who had almost caught up with them, had stopped at the edge of the forest to take their orders. The beams of their lamps were hovering in the fog. Their guttural calls didn't bode well, and the reporter urged his friends to go on.

They plodded around a stable where cows were chewing the cud placidly and had to bend over to pass under the lighted windows of the house, praying for the briard inside, who was greedily eating his soup, to not sound the alarm. They crossed then the next field and found themselves facing barbed wire that the shadow of the trees on the other side had hidden from them.

Haddock got tangled up and shredded his clothes. Tintin freed him with Nestor's help, then had to shake awake Calculus who had fallen asleep standing against the tree beside which he had been left and who Snowy was pulling in vain by the hem of his pants. The Thompsons called out to them softly: the lake was very close, beyond a barrier of brambles. You could make out its dark, shimmering surface in the night mist.

\- "We have to find the harbor," gasped the reporter. "We can't just take any boat; they would catch up with us too easily. We need a speed-"

A fit of coughing cut him off. Curling to contain the pain in his ribs, he tried to catch his breath and, for a few moments, seemed unable to do so. The terrified captain grabbed his arm to steady him when he staggered, but did not dare to pat his back for fear of doing him more harm than good. Nestor uncorked his gourd to pour him some water. Snowy was whimpering pitifully, pressed against his master's legs, his eyes like black marbles reflecting an almost human concern.

\- "They are coming!" Thompson squeaked in a low voice while Thomson waved frantically, not able to find his words.

\- "To the port", managed Tintin between two wheezing intakes.

His lips were blue, and his nostrils pinched. He spit out some pinkish foam, straightened up with a terrible effort of will, leaning on the captain, and motioned the policemen to keep moving forward.

His eyes were bright in the dim light. He was burning with fever, but his ideas were still very clear.

_The port. A speedboat. The Rocks of the Trident. Niko and Nouchka – help._

_Saving his friends._

They set off again, skirting the barrier of brambles, looking for a passage. The lake was lapping against the shore, very close, inaccessible. The hem of the waves was glinting, silvery, as they came to lick the foggy banks.

Finally, they came to a gap between two groves which gave onto a small beach. The first houses of the village stood near the pontoon which jutted out onto the dark lake, fading into the bluish mist like a passage to the beyond.

A few boats with peeling paint were swaying gently in the port. A cat bristled and fled when it saw them. Nestor grabbed Snowy just in time and gagged him with a firm glove.

\- "There are no motorboats," the captain muttered, feeling anger bubbling through him with nervous and physical exhaustion, fueled by the anxiety devouring him. "Who made up a country of bachi-bazouks like this?"

\- "The Syldavians… called… the artificial lake… "the cursed place"… last time we were there", slurred Tintin. "Chances are… the Bordurian farmers are just… as superstitious and… don't venture… out on it… much more than their neighbors."

\- "Save your breath, son," Haddock groaned.

He changed his position slightly, making sure to better support the young man. The reporter was growing weaker by the minute. His breathing was more and more difficult, his legs gave way under him, his head sometimes rolled to the side as if he was about to lose consciousness.

\- "Here!" one of the Thompsons called in a low voice from the other end of the harbor – in the darkness and the fog it was difficult to know which one. "A speedboat!"

The captain stifled a nervous laugh when he got to the chubby little man and saw his twin colleague standing in a boat that clearly belonged ... to the bordurian police.

\- "Quick, Nestor," he said.

The butler nodded and climbed down to the boat. They first maneuvered to help Calculus on board, then helped Tintin get down. Once the reporter was seated at the back of the you-you, the captain handed Snowy to Nestor, then stepped down the few rusty rungs.

It was time. The soldiers were out on the beach and their dogs were pulling on their leashes, barking furiously.

\- "Hurry! Get started!" cried Haddock.

But Thomson had tangled himself in the moorings and Thompson was staring in perplexity at the eight knot at the end of the throwing line.

\- "Oh, _pour l'amour du Ciel _! Let me do it, you nitwitted ninepins!"

He stepped over Calculus, shoved aside the police officers who almost tumbled overboard, and leaned over the old outboard motor. With a nimble and precise movement, he untied the knot, wound the line on the pulley, turned at the point of compression and put the line on sharply – blessing the many times he had seen Tintin do this on one of their adventures.

The speedboat hiccupped, spluttered and roared on, throwing itself forward, biting the waves in a splash.

Shots erupted behind them. A bullet lunged into the rail, sending shards of wood flying off – one of them stuck into the cheek of the captain who did not notice it. The Thompsons were clutching their bowler hats, shrinking as much as they could. Nestor had put Calculus at the bottom of the dinghy and the professor, who understood nothing, was struggling to get free. Tintin was holding Snowy close to him. The dog was barking furiously, but he stayed put – he was trained to flatten out on the ground when bullets were fizzing around.

The fog swallowed them into its icy, thick, damp veil and the sputtering noise of the engine was soon the only thing to be heard over the dark silent lake.

Haddock prayed they were going in the right direction. There was no way he could orient himself in this peasouper of a night. He ran the back of his sleeve over his weathered forehead to wipe away the sweat dripping there, then turned to examine his companions, without letting go of the helm.

\- "Everyone okay?"

Nestor, pale, weakly nodded his horsey chin as he helped a puzzled and dizzy Calculus to sit up. The professor was rubbing his head, eyes half-closed, glasses askew. He had lost his hat and his hair was frizzing all over the place, but he looked otherwise unharmed. The Thompsons were chattering like crazy, but they seemed in one piece. Snowy was licking Tintin's face. The reporter was breathing with difficulty, his arms cradling his chest. He leaned his exhausted neck against the rail and gave his friend a long look.

_"Take us home. I'm counting on you. The lives of our friends are in your hands."_

The captain nodded silently, his throat tight, submerged once more by the absolute trust Tintin had in him despite all the times he had failed him.

Perhaps _that_ was the reporter's greatest strength: he never had any doubts about humanity, about the selfish goals and the blackness of heart of his contemporaries. If he discerned the slightest spark of goodness in you, he believed in it so strongly that it stoked this fragile flame until it became a burning fire that kept you from ever coming back to your previous ways.

Haddock had seen Piotr Skut undergo this transformation and turn from a hardened mercenary to the most loyal of allies after just a few hours on a raft with the young reporter. He knew that Nestor could have lean towards his former masters' side if the young man had not defended him immediately. He was also convinced that Franck Wolff would never have given his life to save them if Tintin had not resolutely taken him back into their ranks on their return from the Moon...

People could say whatever they wanted about _Le Petit Vingtième_'s boy-scout, whose apparent naivety they laughed at. They were wrong. Haddock knew that his friend made a terribly lucid choice every day, every time he looked at the world and at the people living in it: he purposely decided to give them yet another chance, despite the consequences it might have for him. He deliberately placed himself on the side of hope, ready to endure betrayals, disappointments, eternal apologies.

The Tibetan monks had been right. It took the pure heart of a child to see beauty in the world, but a man's courage to tirelessly decide to believe that people could change.

A hand touched the captain's shoulder and he flinched, pulled from his thoughts. His eyes returned to the black waves hemmed with silver that were splashing at the bow of the dinghy. The thick fog was beading his beard with brilliant droplets and weighing down his clothes that were already soaked with the sweat from their mad rush and the dampness of the snow.

\- "How far is this _Rock of the Fork_?" Thompson asked, leaning towards him to be heard despite the noise of the engine.

\- "Close enough to get to safety before that bunch of galloping gophers catch up with us, I hope," Haddock scoffed, rubbing his tired eyes. "It had taken us an hour or so with a police speedboat to get to it from the Syldavian shore when we were chasing after Rastapopoulos."

\- "Do you want me to take the helm so you can rest for a while?"

The captain shuddered at the idea of the dinghy accidentally hitting reefs and sinking in that nightmare night.

\- "No, that'll be fine, thank you."

He did not have Tintin's faith when it came to humanity and he had too often paid the price for the Thompsons' clumsiness to entrust them with his ship – however little it was.

\- "I understand," said the small plump man with a mustache, nodding. "You're the captain. It is indeed you who you should be on deck."

Haddock grinned.

\- "Aye."

He watched as the policeman tottered back to his seat, fearing that he might entangle his feet in a rope and fall overboard, then heaved an imperceptible sigh of relief when Thompson was seated next to his colleague who was snoozing under his bowler hat.

Nestor and Calculus were slumbering, leaning against each other. Snowy was watching the fog, ears pricked up. Tintin gently caressed his back, also attentive despite the cough that was shaking him from time to time and the fever still bright in his eyes.

Pulling up the collar of his jacket, the captain concentrated on the lake and the blue mist in front of him. The slightest dark shadow could be a fatal reef, a speedboat ready to ambush them – a submarine cunningly hidden in the sunken village.

Fortunately, the engine was purring regularly. It would have been really bad luck for it to…

Snowy growled. Tintin straightened up as best he could, stifling a moan when the movement pulled on his broken ribs. Frowning, he scanned the fog surrounding them on all sides. His breath condensed slightly above the rail. Haddock felt a drop of icy sweat slowly trickle down his spine.

_Hadn't the engine been particularly noisy for the last few minutes?_

_As if…_

As if there were _two_ speedboats on the lake.

The dark form of the other one grew in the night, menacingly. Its prow tore the fog and a searchlight suddenly was turned on, dazzling the exhausted passengers slumped in the small dinghy the waves were tossing about.

Haddock made a move to turn the boat around in a desperate maneuver, but at the same time a voice fell from the other boat, amplified by a loudspeaker.

\- "_Hält_, Kapitan! _Noh dzem buthsz_… uh… Syldavia Police! Friends!"

For a few moments the world was completely silent. Then, Haddock's legs trembled beneath him, his ears tingled and a hint of laughter that was perhaps also a sob choked in his throat.

\- "Saved!" he gasped.

He sat down heavily, while the Thompsons awkwardly stood up to cheer for their Syldavian counterparts - and ended their grand gestures of welcome with an inevitable dive into the lake. Nestor was stammering thanks and retrospective lamentations (he was already starting a list of all the things they had left on the mountain). Calculus wiped his glasses off, shaking his head in both disapproval and amusement as he watched the policemen splashing and sputtering. Snowy barked happily, leaping against the railing, wagging his tail at full speed.

Too exhausted to help the customs officers to tie the dinghy to their speedboat, the captain let himself drown into the fuzzy feeling that everything would be fine now, that he no longer needed to be strong. He turned his head to look at Tintin. The young reporter had not moved, his head still leaning against the rail. They shared a long, silent look, then giggled, exactly at the same time.

\- "Remind me to never take the plane again," Haddock stammered, eyes moistening.

\- "Next time, let's take the train", hiccupped Tintin with a nervous laugh.

\- "No thank you", groaned the captain. "With our luck, we'd still end up in a detached wagon at the bottom of a cliff."

He fumbled in the dark, found the reporter's arm and squeezed it lightly.

\- "Next time we have the brilliant idea of taking a break, let's stay at Marlinspike Hall."

\- "Right", stammered Tintin. "Next time, let's stay at home."

The searchlight of the Syldavian speedboat was reflected in Lake Flechizaff, flickering on the black waves like a full moon. The sailors were bustling about, wrapping the survivors in blankets, pouring out cups of coffee and giving around pats on the back. A radio crackled, informing the other boats the castaways had been found.

Haddock felt his eyelids shutting on their own again and he stopped fighting it. He still saw that they were taking care of Tintin, heard in a haze that someone was asking him something, but did not try to answer.

_It was over._

_The nightmare was over._

His hand let go of the young reporter's sleeve, falling limply to the bottom of the boat, and he let himself sink into the blissful darkness.

* * *

**_TBC_**


	11. Eleven (Finale, part I)

**CHAPTER 11  
**

**_"In which someone has to say the famous 'All's well that ends well' ..."_**

* * *

The captain opened wide his bedroom windows and inhaled with delight the fresh air of this early spring morning while tying the cords of his dressing gown. Ah, how good it was at home! No other place on Earth was worth the bucolic tranquility of Marlinspike Hall: the soft golden light bathing the blue slates and the white facade, the perfume of Calculus' roses in the French garden, the chirping of the birds in the trees swaying in the breeze, the smell of freshly cut grass in the meadow where the trailers were parked...

Somewhere in the house, Nestor was humming while polishing the brass. The Siamese cat was curled up on an Empire armchair in the first-floor hallway, next to a standing armor, enjoying a nap while Snowy was burying a bone under a bush of hydrangeas in the park.

Everything was wonderfully peaceful and the captain went off to wash up with a whistle, congratulating himself once more on being retired, having followed Tintin around the world in search of _the Unicorn_'s treasure and being born under the fish-shaped star of the Haddoque family.

While he was singing in his bath, the Thompsons' mint-colored Dolly swerved to avoid the fountain and stopped in front of the porch with a squeal of brakes, making the gravel hiss and sputter. Snowy rushed up to shower the tires with a fragrant spray, while Nestor showed up at the door with his feather duster to welcome the policemen and ask warily their reason for visiting.

The twin agents pulled off their bowler hats in a show of courtesy and whispered that it was top secret, before bursting in giggles under their mustaches at the butler's dismay. Then Calculus came from behind the mansion, in his shirt sleeves and yellow jacket, wearing his straw hat and armed with his pruning shears and, after a few fruitless minutes spent trying to explain to the good professor the reason for this hilarity - obviously he had misplaced his horn _again_ \- the policemen fished out a crumpled bouquet of lily of the valley from the back seat of the Dolly and invited themselves for breakfast.

The delicious aroma of strong coffee and perfectly grilled toasts greeted the captain as he came in the dining room, neatly dressed in his brown velvet squire jacket and green silk tie, but his hair still slightly damp. He had a hand in the pocket of his gray pants and the other carefully feeling a small cut at the edge of his beard - he had jumped while shaving when he had heard voices outside, thinking it was the Castafiore: for a so-called nightingale , this cumbersome swallow tended to come back every spring with its court for "a few days of calm and rest" which proved to be the busiest time of the year at Marlinspike Hall.

\- "Good morning, Captain!" chorused the Thompsons who were enthusiastically buttering their toasts, their big white napkins tied around their necks.

\- "Oh, hallo, Archibald," Calculus chirped happily as he dipped lumps of sugar into his soft-boiled egg and dropped small pieces of bread into his hot chocolate.

\- "Good morning to you, my friends, 'morning, Cuthbert," Haddock replied, sitting down at the table with a broad smile that turned into an incendiary look when Nestor presented him with a glass of water and some pills.

He sighed but took his medicine anyway.

\- "What good wind brings you today, Thompson and Thomson?"

-"We heard you were giving a party," said Thompson. "The Chief thought it best to deter any attempted attack by sending agents to the precinct. Of course, we stepped forward to protect our friends."

\- "To be more precise", twittered Thomson, his mouth full, "we heard you were giving an attack and of course, we protected ourselves to deter any attempt of party."

\- "I ain't giving any party", the captain corrected with a shrug, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I simply suggested the May Day ball could be held within the grounds of the park. It seemed to me it was the least we could do, after everything the people of Marlinspike did for us when we came back from Syldavia."

There was a moment of silence.

Nestor was struggling inwardly between his gratitude for the meals prepared, the laundry done by the ladies of the village during his bout of flu… and his devastation at the number of vases broken by the good women's rambunctious progeny.

The Thompsons nodded, thinking back of the efforts of the Chief to get Interpol to send help to Borduria after the crash and then asking for an investigation on the pilot of the plane and the airline company.

Calculus had not followed the conversation and was sipping his chocolate with some surprise when he swallowed from time to time a piece of soppy bread. But if he had understood what they were talking about, he would certainly have added water to the captain's mill: during all the time he had had to stay in bed, he had never stopped asking for his plans, his devices , his chemical components and, with the patience of angels towards him but always quibbling between themselves, the village school teacher and the priest had gone out of their way to allow him to keep on with his experiments.

Haddock was not deceived, however: even if some had really acted on an outburst of compassion, most of the villagers who had come to offer to tend the lawns or to take care of the pets had probably done so to get an opportunity at poking their noses into every room of the mansion, to peek at the famous people who lived there and to get enough material to gossip then for hours about it.

The captain had therefore drawn a clear line between inoffensive curiosity and intrusions bordering on indecency: for example, he had forbidden anyone to go up to the first floor from the moment Tintin had returned from the hospital. The young reporter was in dire need of rest and it was likely the constant barging into his room to ask him if he needed anything would be detrimental to his recovery.

_And for Heaven's sake, could someone explain to Haddock _why_ all matrons in the province had deemed it necessary to send their daughters to play nurses at Marlinspike Hall?_

Wasn't it enough that one blushing young goose was begging to be allowed access to the lad's bedside? Should they have been let in by the dozen?! Let the Grand Jack bite whoever he wished, but thundering typhoons, they were _not_ going to bear with such a gale!

Martine Vande ... _what was it again? Vandezone? Vandewand?_ In short, Martine Vande-something was very nice, but her mouse sniffles, her flared purple jeans, her dragonfly glasses and her incessant chatter were wearing severely on the nerves of the captain and it would only have taken a word from Tintin for her to be kicked out of Marlinspike Hall with the rest of that horde of doe-eyed silly girls.

But Tintin wasn't saying that word.

At first, no doubt, who was bustling around in the mansion, who was bringing him a tray or opening his curtains had certainly been indifferent to him. The pneumothorax which could have cost him his life if they had been stuck longer in Borduria was on the road to recovery according to Doctor Leech, but the boy did not have much taste into doing anything after learning that he would now be banned from activities such as aerobatics on an airplane, parachute jumps and scuba diving.

For once, he had not tried to leave the hospital before the end of his stay and had obediently complied with the doctors' recommendations. Haddock wanted to be glad about it, but it pained him too much to see his young friend brooding. He had tried by all means to boost Tintin's morale or to distract him, but without success. In the meantime, Martine had showed up timidly on the mansion's doorstep, one rainy evening, saying that she had learned of their "terrible ordeal" from the newspapers and asking if "Monsieur Tintin" was really dead as it could be read in _Paris-Flash_ (a minute of national mourning was going to be organized soon and some head titles proclaimed that the marriage of the old sea dog and the Milanese nightingale was to be put off till doomsday).

Haddock had only made one leap and, roaring, he had dragged the girl to the living room to make her see "with her own eyes" that the tabloid press was blabbering absolute nonsense: he had no intention whatsoever of marrying the Castafiore and Tintin was very much alive, thank you very much!

In the warm room where the fire was crackling softly, the young reporter had lifted his still pale face from the book he had been pretending to read for an hour – and froze. Martine had joined her hands and let out a small cry of surprise, her eyes moistening. Calculus had sneezed (he had just come back soaked from his laboratory). Nestor, who was bringing a stack of towels to the professor, had winced with disapproval at the muddy footprints left on his tiled floor by the young lady.

The captain had no idea what had happened next: _was it _Tintin_ who had asked the young girl if she would like a cup of tea? Had _Martine_ sat on the couch on her own accord, pushing back the brown mane of frizzy hair that her purple headband was not disciplining enough? Had _Calculus_ suggested she should stay for supper? _Who_ had invited her to come back first? It couldn't be _Nestor_, he was going balder just looking at the trumpet pants worn by this young person._

Still, she was there again the next day. And the day after that day. And three days later too. By the end of the month, Haddock had grown used to see her around.

She didn't stay long, and she apologized a lot and talked even more than that. She made Tintin laugh and lamented when he grimaced because of it, holding his ribs which were slowly recovering. She never tired of listening to him and there was something extremely amusing in watching the boy, always so modest, embarrassingly recounting adventures of which he was the undisputed hero.

When it rained, you could find the anonymous secretary of an obscure art gallery and the best reporter of the _Petit Vingtième_ immersed in some big volumes of the library, talking heraldry, or in the attic where he was doing the navigation and she was doing the handling (she claimed to had become a real Hercules from carrying around paintings and sculptures). When spring came back, the orange grove became their favorite spot and the terrace was filled with dusty books and old chests (apparently, some of the secrets of the Chevalier de Haddoque had yet to be discovered).

The captain made it a habit to sit at the small wrought-iron table with a glass of whiskey (empty, the doctor was still fierce) and a newspaper (from the last month), pretending he was enjoying the spring breeze to keep an eye on them.

Sometimes Calculus would sit down with him and chatter fondly about thaw flowers and hearted warriors, of wise little girls and of a certain Phoebe Fairgrave Omlie* whom he had met during the war, when he was in America, and to whom "someone" had nothing to envy in terms of determination and courage.

The captain had no idea what the professor was talking about, but what he could see very well, however, was that over the weeks, Tintin was getting back his strength, regaining his self-confidence, interested again in what was happening in the world, making plans, sweeping aside the concerns of those close to him with a "bah, everything will be fine".

The new typewriter, which had remained in its box for weeks, had finally been unpacked and the study was gradually filled with maps pinned to the walls, memos scribbled in energetic writing, photos and newspaper clippings.

And more and more often, when Haddock worried about not seeing their young friend at breakfast, Nestor would say with a stiff sigh like today:

\- "Oh, Monsieur Tintin was called very late yesterday evening by these gentlemen from the _Petit Vingtième_. He said he was just going to "stop by", but that we needn't worry if he didn't come home, that he would spend the night at one of his colleagues'."

The captain harrumphed as he lifted his cup to his lips.

\- "As if he was going to _sleep_! These journalists have no notion of the time when they're on a case..."

He took a sip of the hot coffee the wrong way round and began to cough. The Thompsons patted him on the back, nearly choking him. Calculus, meanwhile, was chuckling softly as he consulted a telegram he stealthily hid before anyone took any notice of him.

\- "At what time are the marquees coming in, Nestor?" Haddock asked when he caught his breath. "They have to be up on the lawn before this fleet of bayaderes invades us to hang the flower garlands. They want to fix them with moss, ivy and whatever else. Make sure to give them to them water and to keep them from lining the armors as well. The park is at their disposal, but the inside of the manor will be _fine_ without any additional frills."

The butler looked at his pocket watch.

\- "The tents shouldn't be long, Monsieur," he said in his usual pinched tone. "I will be able to contain the decoration committee, don't you worry, Monsieur."

\- "I do hope so, old fellow. But be diplomatic: Mrs. Cutts is at its head and you know the influence her husband has on the municipal council. I wouldn't want..."

The roar of an engine through the wide-open patio door cut off the captain. He was about to rant and rave when he noticed Snowy's tail was beating happily against his chair.

The old dog's kidneys often got clamped since this winter in Syldavia and more and more often he didn't go with the reporter when Tintin went out: he preferred to bask in the warmth of the fire at Marlinspike Hall, curled at the captain's feet or to trot behind Nestor to inspect the property. His small, shiny black eyes were clouded with age and his flair did little more than find his bones stashed in the park, but his instinct was infallible when it came to his master.

\- "Ah, there comes Tintin", said Haddock, patting the curly head of the pooch, while a happy smile bloomed on his weathered face.

\- "Hullo Captain, good morning, my friends," the young man's bright voice said almost at the same time, as he came through the patio door.

His cheeks were rosy after his motorcycle race, his ginger quiff brushed aside by the helmet. His bomber jacket was thrown casually over his shoulder, he had rolled up the sleeves of the blue sweatshirt he was wearing over his white shirt, his brown jeans made his legs look longer and he appeared taller. His walk had regained the flexibility it had before the crash, his smile was still infectious, but there was a new maturity in his gaze.

\- "Good morning, Tintin", exclaimed the Thompsons, jostling to get up and greet him, tripping over Snowy who was jumping about his master.

The boy leaned down to let Calculus kiss him on both cheeks - the professor, over the years, had grown more and more sentimental - shared a firm handshake with the captain and sat down with his dog on his lap on the chair Nestor had pulled for him.

Snowy tried to lick his face and Tintin laughed, trying to escape this outpouring of affection. The butler placed a cup and saucer in front of him, poured him some coffee, took the butter with authority from the policemen, and went off to get a new bunch of fresh toasts.

\- "Thank you, Nestor, but that won't be necessary. I had breakfast in town with Georges", Tintin tried to call him back, without success.

Haddock chuckled.

\- "You'll be in for seconds", he laughed warmly. "This will do for all the times you forget to grab a bite to eat when you're on a report."

The Thompsons were in their third round, as far as they were concerned, which didn't stop them from sighing that duty was calling them to many sacrifices when Calculus excused himself, muttering something about his lab, and they took this as a signal to go take care of "securing the property".

Tintin was deep in his thoughts - absentmindedly keeping away the nose of his dog who was trying to snatch a sugar on the tablecloth - and Haddock watched him for a moment before speaking again.

\- "Martine... you fancy her, don't you?"

The young man, who had his chin in his hand, jumped and almost spilled his cup as he stood up. He was red from ear to ear as he wiped up the coffee that had splashed on the tablecloth with his napkin.

\- "She's a good friend," he stammered.

Haddock stared at him for a few seconds impenetrably, then he let out a sigh.

\- "You've already lived more than anyone, landlubber, but boys your age are settled, married, maybe even have one or two kids already. It's a different kind of adventure, but you're entitled to it like everyone else, y'know. You could choose to stop galloping around the planet and no one would have anything to say about it. There are loads of journalists who work for the local rag and come home on time for supper."

Tintin smiled softly.

-"But I'm a reporter, Captain," he said simply.

Haddock's heart sank.

\- "And where are you going this time?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

The young man drew towards him one of the papers of the day which were waiting, rolled up on the table next to the bouquet of lily of the valley. He opened it and pointed at a column.

\- "_Le Petit Vingtième_ needs a correspondent in Vietnam," he explained. "I speak English and I covered the troubles in China and Sondonesia before, so I'm best found."

How cold it was, suddenly, in the familiar little dining room…

\- "Another civil war ..." whispered the captain.

\- "I won't be alone", said Tintin in a tone that wanted to be light. "There are a lot of French and Belgian colleagues over there."

He patted the newspaper.

\- "I met the journalist who wrote this article: an intrepid lady, barely a dozen years older than me **. If you had heard her! No, Captain, I can't ignore the situation over there."

\- "I liked it better when you were infatuated with your Martine," Haddock growled. "She, at least, wouldn't lure you to a country full of mosquitoes and blasts…"

\- "She's not '_my'_ Martine!" protested the young man, blushing again.

\- "Humph," the captain groaned, but he couldn't help smiling, noting that only half of his claim had been refuted. "I suppose she still has plenty of time to become yours."

\- "Captain!"

\- "In any case, lad, you must speak to her. This young lady probably doesn't have the slightest idea that you're going to set sail for the other side of the world in… how soon, exactly?"

Tintin cleared his throat, looking suddenly embarrassed.

\- "Tomorrow," he muttered, fiddling with the seam of the tablecloth.

\- "TOMORROW?!" Haddock roared, standing up abruptly, slamming his fists on the table, causing the breakfast dishes to jump.

\- "There was a plane tonight, but I didn't want to get in the middle of the preparations for the party," the young man explained hastily. "I'll pack my bags after the May ball and catch the last night train. There's one around four in the morning. I'm sure the Thompsons won't mind dropping me off at the station... "

He stopped, for the captain seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy. Nestor's shadow was hovering in the sun slipping through the open door of the living room, and the birds had become very silent in the garden. In the distance, only the lively voices of the Thompsons were echoing near the laboratory. Snowy whined softly under his master's chair.

\- "You're scaring him," the boy said reproachfully. "And getting angry is not good for your heart."

Haddock drew a long breath, but his clenched fists did not loosen.

\- "What's not good for my heart are bad surprises," he hissed through his teeth. "I know you've always been very independent, and that you owe us nothing, but – thousand thundering typhoons, lad! _Tomorrow_! What is your editor thinking? Sending you to a jungle where God knows what hardships you're going to have to endure! You're not even completely healed, son."

\- "I'm fine", said Tintin in a slightly annoyed tone. "I recovered from more serious injuries faster than that."

\- "Tomorrow!" stuttered Haddock, as if he had heard nothing.

But this time, all his anger had melted, to give way to great weariness, to a sort of despair.

\- "I won't be able to go with you," he whispered, sitting down, his shoulders slumping against the back of his chair.

_How old he suddenly looked… Defeated, overwhelmed, like when Calculus had been kidnapped ..._

Tintin quickly walked around the table.

\- "I never would have demanded it from you," he protested. "You followed me and helped me dozens of times, when you had no reason to. But this time it's not an adventure we're being drawn into in spite of ourselves. It's just a story, Captain, one I have to go get because it's my job. You have no reason to pack and come too."

\- "I know," Haddock breathed under his black beard. "But still, you'll be there and I will be… here."

_Helpless, alone, useless._

_Like before._

Snowy crawled from under the chair and whimpered, wagging his small curly tail. Tintin stroked his dog to calm him down, then picked him up and put him on the captain's lap. He crouched down next to the chair and squeezed the arm of the old sea dog.

\- "If I know you're waiting for me - you, Snowy, the professor, all our friends - I will always find my way home", he said gently.

\- "Hum", said Haddock.

Then he cleared his throat to dispel the emotion of the moment.

\- "Come on", he grumbled, standing up with the help of the armrests of the chair. "We have work to do. And don't think that because you're leaving tomorrow, you will be spared from putting up with Joylon Wagg's brilliant witticisms."

Tintin laughed and he let the captain put his arm familiarly around his shoulders while they went to the park where people were unloading the white canvases of the marquees and the arches of the pergolas on which would the matrons and their daughters would put flowered garlands.

* * *

**_TBC_**

* * *

**_*Phoebe Fairgrave Omlie: First female aircraft mechanic, aviation consultant, and pilot trainer during WWII._**

**_** Brigitte Friang: French journalist, war correspondent in Indochina and Vietnam in the 1960s, parachutist, resistance fighter, author of 'Look at you who die'._**


	12. Twelve (Finale, part II)

**CHAPTER 12**

**_"… for the adventure to really come to an end."_**

* * *

They were busy all day long. Tintin kept running here and there to bring a tool, save one of the Thompsons tangled in a rope, hold a ladder, deliver instructions. The captain groaned, ranted, stormed, gave around orders like if he was still on the deck of a ship, frightened the young girls, made the children laugh, was strongly criticized by the old ladies. Calculus was floating absently in this mess with his pendulum, regularly avoiding an accident with a strand of unheard-of-luck that came to an abrupt end in the late afternoon, when a garden hose tripped him and he fell into the fountain. Convinced a trap had been set for him, the professor then retreated furiously to his apartments, from which Nestor only managed to get him out barely a few hours before the party.

The Marlinspike fanfare, pompously rechristened "orchestra", was to animate the _guinguette_ and rehearse in the crypt where, had decreed the captain, the air being fresh it would limit the amount of refreshments needed for these bottomless throats: they had experienced enough concerts given by the _Harmonie de Moulinsart_ where a third of the musicians had a little too much 'watered' the rehearsals.

Snowy ran barking in the middle of this mess, causing everyone and his neighbor to stumble, while the Siamese cat put herself in the most improbable places: they ended up locking them in the kennel with the horse and the parrot to have free rein.

Finally, everything was ready and the lawn emptied for a good forty-five minutes. In the golden twilight the park was finally silent and looked peaceful out of the window, like some fairy-tale glade awaiting princes and princesses, with its tall dark trees swishing softly in the evening, the lanterns and garlands of flowers gently swaying to the light breeze, the slight flutter of the immaculate fabric of the tents and the tablecloths.

Then the gates opened up and the May Day ball began with laughter and applause and the first squeaks of the violins.

From his bedroom window, Tintin grinned as he watched the captain below, sandwiched in between Cutts the butcher and the Mayor.

The Thompsons were sipping a glass of fruit punch, their canes hanging at their elbows, bowler hats pushed high over their foreheads. Snowy was frolicking with Joylon Wagg's brats, who were stuffing him with _canapes_ and _petit fours_ under Mrs Bolt's disapproving eyes. Nestor busied himself with serving, occasionally dipping his lips in a glass of champagne set aside on his tray. The parrot had escaped and was croaking its repertoire of insults and Italian songs on an oak branch, swelling its feathers. The cat was crouched between two columns on the large steps and lost nothing of the celebration. Calculus was nowhere in sight and the young reporter frowned as he picked up the camera he had come for.

He took a quick snapshot, briefly illuminating the park with a white lightning bolt, then went back down and mingled with the crowd, looking for the professor among the grandmothers who were knitting and the old men beating the beat with their canes and dentures, the vast bellies and the bony shoulders rubbing at the buffet, the entwined couples giggling under the trees and the ribbons.

The dancers were twirling around him, laughing and calling out loudly to be heard above the blare of the orchestra, in a flight of frilly petticoats, puffy hairstyles, slicked back hair and checkered shirts, and he couldn't help but think of the popular song* when he found himself jostled and received in his arms a skinny little figure topped with a sauerkraut of chestnut curls.

\- "Tintin!" Martine gasped, straightening her askew oval glasses when the waltz that had ended gave them a few seconds of respite.

He smiled.

\- "I thought you weren't coming," he said gently, stepping aside to give her some space.

\- "I wouldn't have missed it," she began, smoothing the folds of her straw-yellow dress and pulling the sleeve of her white waistcoat up over her shoulder. "I…"

The big knot in her slightly disheveled hair had also slipped aside and Tintin reached out mechanically to put it back in place. She flushed even more, her eyelashes fluttering wildly behind her myopic glasses.

The music started again and the mass of the dancers tripped them, throwing them in each other's arms, dragging them into its whirl.

\- "I'm afraid we have no other choice than waltz if we want to get out!" laughed Tintin.

She answered something he could not hear, squealed like a frightened mouse as she clutched at him and the crowd carried them away.

Tintin had not lied when he had said he was a bad dancer, but he could have mentioned how clumsy she was too, Captain Haddock thought, as he watched them from the window of the marine room, where he had found refuge after having succeeded in getting rid of Joylon Wagg by abandoning Doctor Leech to a sorry fate (he could hear from here the insurance broker laughing heartily at his own jokes).

\- "A very charming little girl," said a voice beside him.

He nodded with a sigh.

\- "No style, but she has a sure taste for art, I must say", added the voice. "Don't you think so too, Captain Bartok?"

An icy drop trickled down his spine and he turned slowly, mechanically, to the person who had just spoken.

La Castafiore offered him a delighted smile. She was dressed in a beautiful red gown signed Christian Bior and her jewelry shone with a thousand glows.

\- "Ma… m-m-madame," Haddock stammered. "What… what, uh… a surprise."

She hooted with joy, waving her fan.

\- "Isn't iiit? It was the professor who had this blessed ideaaa! I was hooorrified when I heard what haaappened to you last winter, _cher ami_… I couldn't stay still - well, I had to finish my tour in Russia**, of course, _huhuhu_, one is enslaved to one's art, isn't it so? You understand, of course, Caaapitan - but I came running as quickly as pooossible and here I aaam!"

She sighed dramatically and wiped real tears from the corner of her eyes.

\- "I am sooo happy that you are all safe and sound, _caro mio_… I never would have recovered if you haaad disappeared in this terrible accident!"

She clung to his arm before he could pull away, choked on a sob, dabbed her heavily made-up eyes again.

\- "Who would welcome me with ooopen arms if you weren't there? Moulinettes is my nest, my haven of peace, the only refuuuge where I know I am welcomed at any time of the year ..."

The captain gave up correcting the name of his poor mansion, flayed once again like its owner's. He vaguely patted the singer's chubby wrist, then made a cautious attempt to escape the sticky embrace.

\- "Get over it, madame, all's well that ends well. We all came back in one piece. How long did you say you were going to stay this time? I… uh… I have to tell Nestor, to make sure your stay is, ahem… comfortable."

\- "Oh, but only a few days! Barely enough tiiime for the bird to land on its branch…. Alas, I can't get aaaway from my audience for too long, _huhuhu_," simpered Bianca. "Are you dancing, captain?"

\- "Not at all, ma'am", Haddock replied immediately, desperately seeking for an excuse in his suddenly empty brain at the thought of being dragged down to the dance floor once again by the Milanese Nightingale. "My… uh… my doctor forbade it. The age, the… the heart! My condition, you know. It's a shame. But do go have fun, don't you deprive yourself for me. A boring old sea dog like me would be poor company to you."

The valient attempt failed in a wave of applause as the waltz ended in the garden.

\- "Oh, but you're not boring aaall!" cooed the Castafiore with another of her throaty laughs. "Madonna mia, but it's quite the opposite, Captain Vostok! One is never bored for a minuuute in your company. As I always tell Irma, _the captain is the best_ ... now, where is she again? Irma! Irmaaa!"

Haddock took advantage of the fact she had turned to look for her maid to escape, but he was unfortunately caught again at the threshold of the marine room.

\- "I was going to get you a glass of champagne," he muttered, seeing himself spotted.

She had frowned but she melted again, picked up the train of her extravagant evening gown and hung on his arm again, overwhelming him with her heady luxurious perfume.

\- "Let's go together! Oh, how fun! I adooore these little village festivals, this rural chaaarm! You always have the best ideas of the wooorld, _mon ami_."

He resigned himself to his fate, let her re-comb his hair and babble as they went down the steps like a royal couple, endured without flinching the multiple blows of the fan she gratified him with in her excitement, introduced her to the whole crowd, rolling his eyes whenever he saw a heard nod.

Revenge was a dish eaten cold. Calculus would get his one day.

_Where was the old goat, anyway?_

Tintin came to greet the signorina and took the opportunity to ask the same question to the captain. He was out of breath, but his eyes were shining, and his big smile reached his ears.

\- "I'm looking for him too," Haddock replied, distracted by what he had just noticed and that the Castafiore was also whispering in his ear behind her fan.

Tintin was holding Martine's hand firmly in his.

\- "Pardon, Monsieur, but the professor has prepared a small event and asks if we can gather near the pond", Nestor intervened, a little out of breath, after clearing himself a passage through the villagers.

\- "What a delicate attention!" Bianca chirped, immediately dragging away the captain, who was still lost in his thoughts, visibly leaving it to Tintin and Nestor to regroup the crowd.

There were no lanterns near the pond, only a few candles floating on the water among the water lilies. The indistinct mass of people in the bluish twilight was rustling and swishing. Far above the wonderfully illuminated castle, thousands of stars were sparkling on the black vault.

\- "It's beautiful", whispered Martine next to Tintin.

He didn't say anything, but squeezed the small hand he still held. Against his legs, Snowy was yawning.

\- "I hope this isn't a television test again," the captain muttered not far in the dark.

\- "Tut-tut-tut, how bad are you!" cooed the Castafiore, still pressed against him.

The first comet that shot above the lab almost went unnoticed, before it blossomed in a shower of golden droplets, in many _ooooohs_ and _aaaahs_ from all over the garden.

There was a slight commotion where the Thompsons had been standing, for they had been surprised and believed it to be an attack, but the calm returned as soon as the one who had fallen into the water was pulled out of it. Nestor came running up with towels and the policeman watched the rest of the show rolled up in a blanket, teeth chattering but marveling at the fireworks that were blazing one after another into the night.

At the end of the show - a rocket that looped and plunged towards the crowd before soaring to the moon and disappearing without exploding (_"that would have been very bad taste", growled the captain_), all the audience applauded and whistled happily, as Calculus finally came out of his lab, looking absolutely delighted, rubbing his hands together - his curly hair slightly charred at the ends, soot smearing his face and the collar of his shirt.

The captain went to congratulate him and make sure the crowd gave him another cheer, then everyone returned to the pergolas where sweets and coffees had been served. The youth wanted music again, but as most of the musicians had taken advantage of this break to get a drink (or two), only a violin was still in shape to play.

The party ended slowly, peacefully, until all that remained in the night were the faltering lanterns, the empty chairs and the arches on which the flowers had withered.

Tintin and Martine had disappeared. The Mayor was ordering another fireworks display from Calculus for the twenty-first*** of July. Haddock was yawning repeatedly as he greeted the last departing guests, the Castafiore still glued to his arm. The Thompsons had fallen asleep in garden armchairs after taking off their shoes. Nestor was stacking dirty plates and empty glasses on a tray, a very interested Snowy at his heels.

\- "It's so sad when it ends…" whispered Bianca, nestling her sleepy blond head on the captain's shoulder.

He nodded, for once without rebuffing her. He was looking for Tintin, wondering with mixed feelings if the young man was somewhere in the garden… behind a bush… with Martine… when the motorbike roared outside, dazzled the last group of leaving guests at the gate with its headlight then followed the curve of the path to come stop in front of the steps.

_Ah. So he took her home._

The reporter turned off the ignition and took off his helmet. He lifted his head as he climbed the stairs and, in the light falling from the wide-open doors, Haddock saw an almost painful resignation on that young face that was trying to remain impassive.

He then detached himself from the Castafiore, passed her on to Calculus who had finished waving goodbye to the mayor and was hopping back in, and followed his friend inside.

Tintin went up to his room and, without a word, began packing.

\- "I take it she was not thrilled to hear you were going off on a report overnight", said the captain softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

The young man shrugged as he piled a few spare shirts into his suitcase.

\- "I made her cry again," he said with a tone meant to be indifferent.

But his eyes carefully avoided Haddock's, his voice quivered in spite of himself, and his jaws were clenched.

\- "That's all they have left", said the old sea dog. "To cry, and to wait. Women's lives are not easy, lad."

Tintin groaned.

\- "I'm not asking her to risk her life!" he mumbled, stuffing toiletries into a leather case that had seen better days.

Haddock shook his head.

\- "What you're asking of her is much worse, son! Not knowing anything about what's happening to you and being left to imagine everything and anything. Spending nights with nightmares, going around in circles all day long, watching the hours go by slowly, fearing at each ring of the doorbell that it'd be the postman with a telegram saying you're dead..."

His throat tightened up and he fell silent. Tintin had stopped packing the suitcase and he was looking at him with emotion.

\- "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I did not know."

\- "I didn't know once either," breathed the captain.

The young reporter walked around the bed to come sit next to the old sea dog. For a few moments they were silent. Snowy was snoring on the quilt and the night was peaceful, through the open window.

In the bedroom with blue curtains, the light of the bedside lamp was casting on the walls shadows of a cargo ship cruising through a storm, a seaplane tacking over yellow dunes, the half-buried wreck of a three-masted ship guarded by sharks, llamas climbing up the Andes, a raft tossed about at dusk, the desert craters on the surface of the moon ...

\- "You and I had some great adventures together," Haddock said after a while. "And you know what, lad? I don't regret any."

He took his pipe out of his pocket, stuffed it quietly, then lit it and took his first puff.

Tintin closed his eyelids for a moment, breathing in the warm smell of Belgian brown tobacco that had become so familiar, so reassuring.

\- "I don't regret anything either," he said fervently.

\- "That's good", said the captain. "So don't shy away from this adventure either. I'll be waiting for you, son. We'll all be waiting for you: Snowy, Calculus, the Thompsons, Nestor, la Castafiore… each of our friends. And your readers too. Go check on what is happening on the other side of the world, Tintin, then come back and tell us about it."

The young reporter nodded, throat clogged with emotion. The captain patted him on the back gruffly, then stood up. He stopped at the doorstep of the bedroom, turned around.

\- "I'll take a nap. Shake me awake when you're ready to go, I'll take you to the station. The Thompsons are drunk as skunks, Nestor has put them up in the guest room."

\- "Give my best regards to Madame Castafiore tomorrow morning, please. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye to her."

Haddock groaned and Tintin, chuckling, went back to his packing.

* * *

oOoOoOo

* * *

Dawn was shrouding the cypresses in cold white, and the river was exhaling a light golden mist, when the train let out a long whistle before leaving Marlinspike station huffing and panting.

On the platform, the captain readjusted his sailor's cap and pulled up the collar of his black jacket as he walked back to the station gate. The dawning sun was blossoming, pink and fragile, above the red roofs of the still sleeping village.

The wire white fox terrier had not budged, still sitting where his master had asked him to remain seated and stroked him one last time before boarding the train. Snout up, sniffling, he was wiggling his ears slightly.

\- "Snowy!" called the captain. "Come on, old chap. We're going home. Nestor saved a big marrow bone for you."

\- "Whoof!" replied the dog.

Then, after a last glance in the direction the train had taken, he turned back from the railroad tracks and trotted over to the breakfast he was promised.

* * *

**_* 'La Foule', Edith Piaf, 1957._**

**_** It was called the Soviet Union at the time, but Bianca is too romantic to pay attention to politics, of course._**

**_*** July, the 21st is Belgian National Day._**

* * *

**_You can stop here. Or you can read the bonus chapter coming after this one, but I decline all responsibilities about whatever feelings it'll make you go through…_**


	13. EPILOGUE

**_Epilogue_**

* * *

\- "Snowy!" Haddock called, cupping up his hands round his mouth. "Snowy, where are you, old rascal?"

The newly harvested golden fields were taking on a bloody hue in the twilight around him. The heat of the day was now giving way to the pleasant coolness of the evening, and grasshoppers were leaping among the coarse remains of the mown wheat.

\- "Snowy! Come on, come back! You're no longer old enough to sleep outside, even in summer!"

Somewhere in the surrounding countryside, a tractor was bumping back to its farm. Scouts were playing guitar around a campfire. A cricket awoke at the edge of the river and began its song, quickly joined by others.

A star had lit up in the firmament, a bright spot in the sky where ultramarine blues were blending. Another, smaller, appeared beside it.

Bats were hovering across the field. The captain chased them away with a brief wave of his hand, along with the mosquitoes gathering around his head. He took off his cap, wiped his forehead, slapped his neck, then resumed looking for the dog that had scampered off during the gin rummy game Calculus was losing for once.

\- "Snowy! Snowy! Where are you? Come back at once!"

Haddock frowned, his fists on his hips. He turned around, scanning the wide countryside around him. The hay bales shadows were stretching down, a breeze was rippling through the row of trees on the side of the road. A bicycle was following the small road to Marlinspike.

\- "Snowy! What kind of fly has stung him? He can't have gone to the village again..."

Sometimes, when the locomotive's plaintive cry could be heard in the distance, Snowy ran away. He was inevitably found at the station, waiting on the platform for his master to come back...

A gyrfalcon brushed past the captain. He flinched. The horizon was painted with purple shades now.

\- "Snowy! Snowy! Blistering barnacles, will you answer?!"

He thought he heard a bark and turned around quickly. But it was only the dog from the dairy farm on the hill opposite. The captain decided to go take a look anyway. He would then return to Marlinspike Hall and take the car to go to the station. He was not going to walk all the way to the village, as he had done the first time.

_Impossible mutt! He's even more stubborn than his master..._

He was groaning, but he knew he wouldn't have the heart to scold Snowy when he found him. Tintin had been gone for three months now, time was getting long for him too ...

It was milking time and the farmer had other things to do. He had not seen the castle's dog, _no, m'sieur, bien l'bonsoir, m'sieur._

Haddock scratched his beard when he came out from the yard. He thought for a few moments, then, with a sigh, resumed the direction of the mansion, cutting through the fields to get to the breach in the perimeter wall - it would have to be repaired someday - and gain a few hundred meters through the park.

The white silhouette of the house and the lighted window in the small living room that Nestor must have lit for Calculus stood out through the trees when he heard branches cracking in the thickets. Immediately alert, he stopped, scanned the darkened undergrowth.

_Snowy? A doe? Gangsters?_

Interpol still hadn't established who was the enemy who had been playing with them on the radio. The Bordurians were thick-skinned. Had they sent agents to Marlinspike? It wouldn't be the first time ...

He slipped cautiously between two trees, rolling up his sleeves… and froze as he stepped in a small clearing where a big brown root was snaking in the grass.

It was the place where Tintin had fallen when he was chased by the Bird brothers' doberman, on his first visit to Marlinspike Hall. By a curious turn, he had taken it in affection and had installed a hammock there, in which he came to read in the summer, in the coolness of the wood.

Snowy was here.

Lying on his side, at the foot of the tree in which they had fixed a ring for the hammock that had not been hung this year.

The evening breeze was gently brushing back his white, curly fur.

Haddock slowly came closer and knelt down to touch the dog's muzzle. Snowy did not shudder. He was still warm, but there was no more life in that small body worn out by the years.

\- "Poor old thing ... muttered the captain, sadly stroking Tintin's faithful companion, emotion clogging his throat at the idea of having to tell his young friend the news of Snowy's death.

He stayed lost in his memories for a moment, then picked up the fox terrier and slowly made his way home.

He was just coming out of the gardens when he saw Nestor running towards him. The butler looked distraught. His skull was shining with sweat; his sparse hair was mussed up, his yellow striped waistcoat was stained with who knew what, sauce or tea.

He was waving something over his head and when he got close enough, the captain realized it was the blue paper of a telegram. Something froze inside him, and he stopped, unable to go any further.

\- "Ah Monsieur, Monsieur ..." Nestor stuttered, out of breath.

His pale face was marbled in red, his wrinkles were deeply hollowed out, and his flabby cheeks were streaming with tears.

\- "Monsieur ... oh, Monsieur, the terrible news ..."

Haddock felt his heart squeeze so painfully that he gasped. Black dots danced before his eyes, and for a moment the night was everywhere, darker than any storm he had faced.

Then the discreet sound of the crickets' song came back, the square of light from the living room window stood out again on the flowerbeds and through a veil of tears, he made out Nestor who was standing in front of him, hunched like an old man, looking appalled, staring at the small body of the dog.

\- "Oh Monsieur… Snowy… poor Snowy…"

\- "I found him in the wood," Haddock said in a strange mechanical voice. "Near the old oak tree. He must have sensed it coming…"

Nestor blew his nose loudly.

\- "Yes", he stammered. "Yes, Monsieur, he must. The brave animal must have sensed it… they were so close…"

He timidly patted the fox terrier's limp head.

The night was fragrant, sweet and peaceful. There were still only two bright stars visible in the sky when the captain looked up, for a moment, to muster up his courage.

\- "This telegram, Nestor ..." he breathed, his voice hoarse. "What's it saying?"

The butler lowered his angular chin. A tear ran down his big nose and got lost in his starched collar. He leaned down to take the dog carefully, then handed the thin sheet of blue paper to his master.

\- "I am _so_ sorry, Monsieur…"

The black letters blurred before the captain's eyes. He ran his sleeve over his face, tried to make them out, but they didn't make any sense.

He bit his lip, rubbed his beard.

\- "Thundering typhoons, who's the scoundrel who..."

His voice choked.

\- "Tintin ... oh, Tintin ..."

He wanted to run away, to flee from the pain, to go and hide himself somewhere, maybe to go back to his accursed bottle, and forget everything. But his limbs were not obeying him and he stood there, motionless, shoulders quivering, the blue telegram crumpled in his gnarled hands, so small next to the great white castle in which he would now be so unbearably alone.

A drop wet the corner of his mouth, then slipped into his black beard. It tasted like the sea - the sea he should never have left.

\- "What are we going to do, Monsieur?" Nestor asked, sniffling, holding Snowy close to his chest.

Haddock drew in a deep breath. He put his hand on the old butler's shoulder.

\- "I'll go to him," he said. "He's waiting for me, I'm sure. I'll bring him home."

Against the inky sky, the blue roof of Marlinspike Hall stood out in a clear line. Thousands of stars were twinkling now, and one of them drew a curve down, in the blink of an eye, before disappearing behind the mansion.

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

**_If you didn't know already, the Clear Line was Hergé's drawing style. I wanted to give it a small homage._**

**_These characters were my childhood friends: I wrote my very first fanfic when I was 7 years old. It featured Tintin and Captain Haddock going on a holiday and finding Tintin's parents along the way (Tintin somehow got hurt too ^^). It was also the very first story I wrote in my entire life, in big clumsy letters on a spare orange notebook my daddy had brought back home from work (there were lists of shoes brands at the back, and these weird names inspired me later for my very first original story, _****'Auriel of Earth'_)._**

**_I can't thank Hergé enough for all he gave me through these comics and this was a very humble attempt at a fanfic of his amazing world. Thank you for bearing with me till the end!_**


End file.
